


Tarnished Glory

by Cybertronic Purgatory (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Het, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 58,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Cybertronic%20Purgatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of turmoil, Marian Hawke begins breaking all her own personal rules as she is drawn towards the Arishok, even with tensions straining throughout the city around them. Rated M for sexual content, a bit of violence, and glorious Qunari horns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The foggy air hung thick over the docks, spilling in from the sea and unfurling itself across the winding alleys, dense like a cloud into which passers-by floated in and out of focus to the point where Marian Hawke could barely see her feet moving across the damp streets. Moisture was seeping in through the cracks in her armour, softening the small clothes underneath to the point where they clung to her skin.

Trying to ignore the uncomfortable state of her garments, she took another turn down an alley and was greeted with the sight of the docks, blanketed in the thick fog. Masts from frigates and merchant vessels rose out of it, distant and prone to vanish with the smallest ripple of a breeze. Though the salty air felt refreshing after the walk through Lowtown, she braced herself for what was waiting down the final set of steep stairs.

At the gates of the compound, a Qunari stood across from Fenris, both of them with their arms crossed, each mirroring the other's blank expression as their eyes sized the other up.

"Hawke," Fenris said shortly, shifting on his feet but not moving from the wall he leaned against.

She nodded to the guard, his brow furrowing for a brief moment as he scanned Hawke's face, but then nodded. "You are allowed," the guard said firmly, stepping aside to let them through.

Once past the gate, Fenris, ever vigilant, twisted his head around, taking in the sight of the surrounding Qunari, none of which paid any attention to them. The cramped space of the compound was kept neat and clean, to the point where Hightown seemed messy – the silence of it did unnerve Hawke, and she straightened her back, rolling her shoulders to relax the tense muscles.

There had been few changes to the compound since she visited last. There still was no smell other than the salt and rotting seaweed that filled all of the harbour, but it was fainter. Beyond that, the soldiers stood around with their terse expressions and naked torsos, bright red paint covering their taut muscles. It was like it had been for a long time.

"Why are we here?" Fenris grumbled, hunching his shoulders as they walked. She caught a waft of bitter wine in his clothes, and adding that with his throaty voice, she deducted he'd been drinking the night prior. As usual. Not that she judged, they often spent nights together in his mansion working towards emptying the fine collection his former master had left behind, but he tended to be a bit more testy than usual the morning after.

"Viscount's orders."

"I'm sure the viscount has more diplomatically suited people to send for this task." Fenris smiled, and she cracked her neck, a nervous tick she couldn't get rid of. He was right, she really didn't have the temper for politics, a bee nest of untold dangers as she thought of it, and avoided all such situations with a graceful excuse. More or less. Telling the seneschal to  _shove it where the viscount gives it_ hadn't perhaps been the most elegant of moves, but it had ensured that her involvement in city affairs was kept to a minimum for the past three years.

Unfortunately, it seemed she was out of luck, and getting hauled back in to deal with matters she shouldn't even be let close to, lest she cause a minor war.

A flock of seagulls cawed out loudly before lifting into the sky from a nearby building, the cacophony of their fluttering wings and hoarse calls near deafening. It really wasn't a good day.

"He does," she admitted, "but the Arishok requested me. By name."

Fenris stopped, a twitch in his eyebrows as he regarded her. "That is... Odd. What did you do to earn his attention?"

Hawke grimaced – if Fenris, her pocket Qunari expert, found it strange that the Arishok wished to meet her, then she really didn't know what to think of it.

The Arishok was already waiting for her, seated on his makeshift throne, shoulders pushed forward. He was an imposing sight as always, the great dark horns twisting back from his head and decorated with gold bands, and expression set in a cold indeterminable mask that was difficult to decipher at best, downright frightening at worst.

When she approached, he raised his head, resting his eyes on her. "Serah Hawke," he said, her name dragged out as he pronounced each syllable. It was difficult for her to decide if it was spoken with disdain or something else. "An interesting name. I did not care to know it before. However, you have changed your fortune over the years and drawn much attention." His hand swept towards the soldiers surrounding him. "The Qunari have not, as you see."

"You requested my presence?" Hawke asked. She was not going to get dragged into a discussion with him.

"An offer," he said bluntly. "Someone has stolen what they think is a formula for gaatlok. You will want to hunt him." It sounded as if each word he spoke had been measured with care beforehand.

She quirked an eyebrow. "Stolen? From you? How?"

"It was allowed. The stolen formula was a decoy."

"What exactly am I looking for?"

"Saar-qamek – a poison gas. In the hands of the kind of residents you have here, it is lethal. I suspect the thief is none other than the unworthy dwarf."

"Javaris?" She made a mental note to harass Varric for help once she got out of the compound. "I barely spoke to you three years ago. Why give me this warning?"

There was a slight inclination of his head. "A courtesy. You are capable, but I have yet to decide if you are capable of understanding. Save your city, then we will talk." His cryptic words sent a shiver down her spine.

"As you say."

"Panahedan, Hawke. I do not hope you die." If the fog hadn't been as dense as it was, she might have thought she'd seen a small tug on his lips as he spoke. Almost a smile, but not quite – whatever it had been, it was only there for a second, gone the next.

* * *

After Hawke had treated Varric to an ill-tasting pint of Kirkwall lager, he'd admitted he had missed a few – or five – meetings with the Dwarven Merchant Guild, and didn't exactly have his finger on the pulse of the criminal underworld like he used to, but that he had heard that a mess Javaris had been involved in was being played out by the Coterie in Darktown. She'd thanked him, but evaded saying why she wanted the information, much to the dwarf's annoyance.

Escaping from the noisy atmosphere of the Hanged Man, she breathed out on the street and turned to her elven companion.

"Can we do this on our own?" she asked Fenris.

He shrugged. "I don't see why not."

She tapped her thumbnail against her front teeth. The fog hadn't lifted yet, and at this rate, it seemed doubtful it would at all that day – but it was better than the acrid smells of the pub clawing at her senses.

"I'd rather not drag the others into this, if possible."

He smirked. "I feel honoured to be thought of so highly that you drag me into meddling with politics."

* * *

No fury like a Coterie woman left with debts unable to be collected. She was more than eager to give them a helpful direction, leading them to a passage Hawke was familiar with.

Smuggler's Cut she remembered, not fondly, from when she worked for Athenril – a lush green cavern, ferns growing on the ground and ivy sneaking up the walls against which sunlight sifted in through holes in the rock walls, curling its way from the Undercity out to the coastline. Always prone to be crawling with various illegal activities, they'd been more or less forced to fight down some smugglers and mercenaries who stabbed before asking.

Sometimes, Hawke wondered just how hollow Kirkwall and the Wounded Coast was – it seemed an endless underground network of tunnels and sewers, housing entire settlements of displaced inhabitants. Half of which seemed to end up dead by her hand.

"You're doing that thing again," Fenris noted, the glow of his lyrium tattoos faint and fading, dislodging his sword from the ribcage of a smuggler.

"Hmm?" She used the soft underside of her arm to wipe off a smear of blood on the side of the blade.

"You're somewhere else when you're fighting."

"Not really," she countered.

He shook his head but didn't press the matter further – though they both knew he was correct.

She didn't have the temperament of a true fighter, she knew as much – it was just something she drifted into, trying to find a way to support the family. A good blade with flexible muscles wielding it had earned a fair bit of coin in Lothering and the surrounding towns. It had been a life – not good, not bad, just  _a_  life, making ends meet. If anything, that was her greatest skill: when things were difficult, she found a way to carry on through it. After all, if she would not possess the strength, then who in her family would?

Then she'd ended up conscripted into a hopeless army – Carver's brilliant idea, because his obsession with glory left him constantly needing to try and prove something. They had argued, and mother had been in fits, but off they had gone, marching through silent woodlands from where the wildlife had fled, sensing what was coming.

At Ostagar, she watched the lines falter and break, and they had fled from the smouldering ruins of a pathetically lost battle, dragging a dumbstruck Carver back home with the dark-spawn at their heels.

And now Carver was dead, Bethany too, and she alone was caring for their mother in an estate that had a cold floor and nosy neighbours. It wasn't much to care for, not in the same way that she had before Kirkwall, and in a way it bored her to tears.

To pass the endless hours of tedium cooped up at home, she crafted elaborate fantasies to lose herself in. She was a chronic dreamer – an old habit she found difficult to shake. It had been the same in Lothering, where most of her jobs had been to guard merchant caravans or be a bodyguard to someone paranoid about getting shanked in the pub. Mostly, nothing happened, and entertaining a little fantasy was harmless.

When the darkspawn horde marched in on the battlefield, the dreams continued. Not to the point where she was able to disappear completely in them, but that she could think of a much different thing than the brutal act she was engaged in. A distraction that served her well, somehow – she had not once lost her nerve during their flight, not hesitated a single time to do what was needed to achieve the jobs for Athenril.

Even in the Deep Roads, when she held Bethany's hand, driving the knife into her soft heart with the other, she wasn't fully there.

Fenris tended to remark that it detracted from her awareness of her surroundings, and made her vulnerable in battle, but she took it lightly. They all had ways to cope with how they lived their lives and sought out their livelihood; hers was to wander into her own thoughts and detaching herself from the aching muscles cleaving a head in two.

* * *

Javaris, big mouth and shifty eyes, just muttered about a blonde elf who'd tried to kill him at first, and she had to show him a flash of sharp blade to get him to loosen his tongue. His bargaining position was weak, to say the least, with dead bodyguards limp at his feet.

Hawke wasn't sure she believed that he was innocent, and when the dwarf thought himself safe from harm she lodged the knife in his neck. Just to be sure. Better to eliminate troublesome influences before they got a third chance.

Nothing he'd said had prepared her for what awaited back in Kirkwall. Not that she'd been able to wrangle much sense out of him. _A crazy elf, nothing explosive,_   _not quite as it seems, eh_ , but still she found her thoughts straying from the present and to being somewhere else. To not be in the street with panic-stricken eyes looking to her to solve an impossible situation.

An entire neighbourhood drenched in green gas, resting like a thin mist on the ground, rising up to tickle her nostrils as she descended the steps to the lowered square. " _A cloud that drove people mad, and now a seeping mist that kills_ ," the terrified guardsman had explained at the perimeter of the neighbourhood, and she had to step over pools of vomit as she entered past the flimsy gate set up to keep residents out. Or in.

It was difficult to breathe. She tried to think of something else, anything, but her mind changed between topics too fast to find anything she could properly hide in.

In contrast with his normally composed exterior, Fenris was gagging from the pungent smells oozing out from the poison containers. "This is sickening," he muttered, biting down to keep from giving in.

Down an alley, she heard a woman screaming for her child, alternating between gentle calls of endearment to downright threats and what sounded like a knife cutting into soft, squishy meat. There were dead inhabitants seen through the open doors and windows, killed by each other, or with blood dripping from their mouths, eyes blank and glazed.

The gas made her skin itch. It took a lot of effort to stop her from clawing at her neckline and get to work in sealing the vents of the barrels, and each minute spent in the green mist added to her frustration. She was on her hands and knees in the ankle-high mist searching for the latch that had glittered faintly when an arrow landed an inch from her hand, followed by a soft voice calling her name.

"Serah Hawke!" The woman's face was weather-bitten, her hair a matted blonde mess on top of her head, but her green eyes were clear. "Good to see you. No, actually, I'm glad it's you. You'll be a much better target."

She had been about to say something else, but Fenris had shot out of the shadows and put his sword through the archers flanking her, and finished her off with a quick thrust through the back, the crack of bones echoing against the walls as he pulled out.

"I'm not alone," she gurgled, sagging down onto the street as Fenris stepped over her, face twisted into a snarl. Her voice was wet, eyes unfocussed but lips smiling. "Your kind helped me. More will come. You have enemies now..."

The elf continued speaking, but Hawke quit listening – she sealed the final valve with a forceful push and left the square without a backwards look, her fingers twitching to peel her skin off.

* * *

Her hair still smelled of the gas, but the scent had changed, closer to being like the all-too-sweet candy Merrill would buy at the market and offer each time she had visitors. Hawke didn't particularly enjoy it, sticky and sickly in her mouth, thickening as she tried to chew, the consistency of it making it near impossible to swallow.

All through their descent through the city, the sky changed from a grey indistinguishable mess to a velvet darkness, the clouds thinning and bright stars punching through.

When they returned to the compound, her thoughts were still roaming wild, flittering between obscure smells and sensations that all made her queasy. As such, she barely registered when a Qunari approached Fenris, speaking to him in that haughty language of theirs, taking the elf away with him – explained it briefly as  _a Qunari thing_ , and then he had disappeared behind the makeshift hovels.

The Arishok hadn't seemed to move at all since the morning, still perched on his throne with hands resting on his legs, leaning forward slightly as he listened to her. "You were wrong," Hawke said, one fingernail scratching an itch on her wrist. "It wasn't Javaris. Your gas was stolen by someone else, and she said she's not alone. That there are other forces opposing you." The nail broke through her skin in her feverish need to quell the tingling sensations, blood trickling out in small droplets.

"It does not matter," he said dismissively, studying her scratching hands. "I see..."

Her hands stilled. "What?"

"The saar-qamek must be rinsed off. If not, you will suffer. It will be most painful." He gestured towards the area where Fenris had disappeared to. "As a courtesy for your work, there is a bath prepared for you."

When she didn't move from her spot, he leaned back. "I suggest you accept it. The antidote will not be easily attained elsewhere in Kirkwall."

She swallowed, briefly considering her options, then bowed her head and followed a quiet soldier who led her down a narrow passage. At the end, he simply turned and walked back, and she entered through the passage he had left her at.

Fenris was in and out of the bath before she had even reached it, his hair dripping a trail down his chest. They acknowledged each other, but the feelings swelling through her skin, running in tendrils up and down her limbs, made her unbuckle the scabbard and lean her sword against the tub to get to work on her clothing. She undressed quickly, feeling the strain of an entire day in armour on her body. It had been quite a while since she'd worn her entire outfit for such a long time, and it probably would see its fair share of usage in the coming months if the political tensions were anything to go by, she thought grimly. Even with her blissful ignorance of the state of the city's troubles, it was looking unlikely she'd be able to circumnavigate the oncoming storm.

Frustration could not even begin to describe what she felt in regards to it.

Final straps loosened, the pieces fell to the ground, hauberk clattering down on top of it, and she shivered in the cool night air, goose-bumps rising on her flesh.

Stepping into the water prepared for her, she winced at the near-blistering heat as it made contact with her skin, and had to steel herself as she eased herself into the tub. For a few minutes she just soaked, feeling the discomfort abate with each exhaled breath, her body slipping deeper down, eventually sinking below the surface. The fragrant water stung against her eyelids as she held her breath, counting the time that passed.

It was like the simple game played with Bethany in their childhood, seeing who could keep underwater the longest. Marian had won each time, much to Bethany's wonder: all she employed was a simple trick of putting her mind elsewhere, to not feel the deprivation of air in her lungs. However, be it the after-effects of the poison gas or the searing heat surrounding her, she barely lasted half of what she normally would before needing to breathe.

Upon emerging, she was immediately greeted with a bowl of cold water dumped on her head, chilling her to the bone and making her gasp as her chest clenched at the shock. Brushing the wet hair strands plastered to her face back, she looked up to see the Arishok staring down at her, holding an empty bowl in his hands. His expression was unchanged, troubled as ever, and Hawke became very aware of her nakedness in the translucent water and pulled her knees up to her chest. Not that he was looking – his dark eyes were focused on hers, intense and unyielding.

"I have a question," though he said it like a statement.

"I'll try to answer." Being alone in the Arishok's presence made her nervous, if only because she didn't have Fenris guiding her words underneath his breath. As much as he seemed to tolerate her, she wasn't sure if she might provoke him one way or the other.

"How do you stand this city?" His foot kicked against a valve on the side of the tub, and the water began to drain out through the bottom, the whirlpool tickling her toes.

She had to set her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering as more and more of her skin was subjected to the cold air. "I came here as a refugee, fleeing the blight in Ferelden."

"That was four years ago. What now? You are obviously not a refugee like the others from your land, cowering in the sewers over dying embers, complaining about the dirt and smells." When she hesitated to answer, he pushed on insistently. "Why do you remain here if you find it insufficient? Why do you suffer it?"

"My family keeps me here," she responded automatically. Not that she could agree with it being a punishment, but it wasn't a blessing either.

He grunted.

"That not satisfactory to you?"

"You stay for one reason, we for another." His voice softened. "It is as it is."

"You really don't like it here, do you?" she asked conversationally, horribly self-aware, coiling her body tighter.

"This is not a place tolerable to a Qunari."

The final remains of the bath sloshed out, leaving her naked and unshielded in the rigid wooden tub. Hawke held her tongue, unable to move under his heavy gaze that pinned her down. He towered over her, enigmatic and terrifying, no muscle moving, no chest rising – and she felt herself become as still as him, mouth and mind drying up, all of her frozen and aimed fully at him, poised and waiting – but why?

When his lips moved, the moment shattered, the question failing to be answered. "I hope we have no need to meet again, Hawke." The Arishok turned, leaving her feeling as tense as she had in the morning.


	2. Those Evil Demons

Throughout the night, the image of the Arishok rose up, again and again, determined to give no reprieve. There was an obscure sensation attached to it – and even as she tried to shut her eyes tight and call forth sleep, she found herself coming back to him. In hindsight, she couldn't comprehend how she had remained calm and composed in his presence. He was menacing, and yet when he spoke, his voice would appease her nerves, still her instincts.

It wasn't until she fell into bed that she noticed a tremble pass through her at the thought of having been within crushing distance – at having been in a vulnerable state and at the mercy of his will – that he could have... That there was a vastness of potential, stretching from volatile dangers to the less so, and he opted to act somewhat benignly towards her.

Circling back to that meeting, she tried to see what in it could possibly have made him think so of her.

One meeting three years prior. Was that enough to warrant requesting her specifically? She could see some logical reason – after all, it had been her hand that had enabled the dwarf to attempt and make the claim to the Arishok the first time, and in a way, it was only right that she cleaned up the mess she had helped create. It just didn't feel like it was enough.

Their one and only dealing had been over the dwarf's obsession with obtaining gaatlok. It had been during the time when she'd been desperate for coin, and had taken any job thrown her way. As a first formal introduction to the Qunaris in Kirkwall, it could have been less... Greedy.

 _Marian sighed, tired of the sun, tired of the thin sheen of dust that clung to her – she was extremely tired of Bethany's eagerness to have them take on any little scrap of work they could, getting them in more trouble than necessary, and she was about ready to put to a knife to Javaris' throat when the Arishok denied the dwarf the gaatlok._

 _Fenris caught on to her frustration, because he asked the Arishok for a clarification. Fenris, for once with back straight and something akin to reverence in voice and expression, spoke their language, much to Marian's surprise. It was welcomed, though: the less direct talking she had to do, especially with the pressing heat and blisters and by the Maker was she fed up with all the crap she was wading through – she just wanted to get the coin she'd been promised and get going._

 _The Arishok explained unambiguously that there had been no deal, merely a creative interpretation of a no. There was nothing for them there, especially since the Qunari would not deal with Javaris who could not even be the acting hand in his own bargains, but had to lean on hirelings like Hawke._

 _Fenris bowed his head, apologising for their wrongful insertion into matters not theirs. The Arishok must have a sense of humour, she thought, when he complimented her on the company she kept. Merry band of misfits, indeed: the finest Kirkwall had to offer. If by finest, your definition could overlap with shifty, broken and barely on the right side of the law. (Aveline, the poor thing, had to look through her fingers at Hawke more than not.)_

 _When Fenris suggested killing the dwarf on behalf of the Arishok, she perked up. Now there was an idea she could get on with. Running out of leads for somewhat clean jobs to take on, she loathed having to dip her feet in other's messes – there really must be something in the water if no one in this damned hole of a city could sort out their own problems._

 _Fingering the scabbard of her small knife, nestled in the crimson waistband, the headache worsened with each pulse of her heart, heated blood throbbing in her veins. She was about to act recklessly when the Arishok's voice halted her hand._

" _No." He must have followed her eyes, noticed her tensing knuckles and fingers digging in the folds of the sash._

 _"Why?"_

" _He's not worthy of your effort, basra." The Arishok's eyes fixed on her briefly. It was an interesting insult: that the greedy big-mouthed dwarf and his transgressions did not warrant the effort of drawing a blade and putting a stop to him._

 _She liked the way he thought._

 _Bethany, on her hand, groaned as Javaris was about to slip away, bringing up the promised payment and future profits._

 _There was a low rumble coming from the depth of the Arishok's throat, and suddenly the guards at his side pulled out their weapons and held them at ready. Instinctively, she reached for the hilt of her sword as the Qunari clenched to their spears, and it was through an overwhelming force of will that she stayed her hand when the Arishok rose from his seat, muscles at his throat straining. He was tall. Very tall. Very muscled. Incredibly terrifying._

 _Bethany had once shown her drawings of demons that their father had used in tutoring his apostate daughter in the dangers of the Fade. The Arishok reminded her of those dark sketches, the twisted horns and warrior's body, the red markings done with precision on pale white skin. His dark eyes gleaming, lips moving slowly to speak words she couldn't quite make out, too mesmerised – but when she felt the pouch of gold hit against her chest she caught it with a quick reflex and loosened her grip of her sword._

 _Javaris was gone before she counted, but it was all there._

 _Unable to shake the display she'd just witnessed, she motioned for her companions to leave, keeping her eyes still on the Arishok as he settled back down with a barely audible sigh, muttering a parting word to her._

 _A demon out of her deepest nightmares._

 _Bethany had been thrilled over the coin, hugging Marian as she bounced up and down when they sauntered back to Gamlen's house. They had enough gold to finance the Deep Roads Expedition, and Bethany, previously sheltered and now enthusiastic about their life in Kirkwall – describing it in her letters to Lothering as 'all the romance and danger in novels, but more real and tantalising!' – was tripping over herself in excitement._

Marian bit her lip.

Although she hadn't noticed it before, in her own home, the rich scent of the herbal bath she'd taken was heady, and she couldn't help but sniff at the folds of her arms, even going so far as to tentatively lick at her underarm. Beneath the typical salty tang, the spices were, but elusive, unplaceable. One hint was close to mint, another to anise, a third a mild lemon overtone – but none of them overwhelming, just faint traces at the edge of her tongue, dissipating quickly.

Twisting in the sheets, she spread the scent into the soft linens as the insomnia held her in a tight grip. A concern was gnawing at the pit of her belly, and it was one she was unable to pin down more exactly than to be related to the Qunari.

To the demons of her nightmares.

Burying her nose in the crook of her elbow she willed the thoughts away.

When she drifted off to sleep in the small hours of the morning, she dreamt of his white pupils in the dark, flashes of pale grey and dark red surrounding him.

* * *

It was late in the morning when Marian rose from bed, stretching between the sheets to ease the burning ache of her swollen muscles. The sun-dappled floor was warm beneath her naked feet as she shuffled into the kitchen for breakfast.

Despite their status as nobility, unless they had guests, they ate all their meals in the kitchen. With such a small household as theirs, it just seemed wasteful. Habits from their life in Ferelden were hard to shake.

Seating herself at the table in the kitchen, she saw the basket of freshly-baked bread rolls Bodahn had put out, and she fished one up and tore off a piece, the crust giving way to a sweet and buttery interior. Leandra was nowhere to be seen, probably out calling on old friends and re-establishing a name and standing for them in the upper levels of society. As usual.

She finished off the bread roll with a content sigh, the most pressing hunger pangs abating, mild and warm flavour still lingering in her mouth. Despite it all, Kirkwall at least had the decency to take its inspiration in the kitchen from Orlais than Ferelden. In Lothering, the times when Leandra had managed to scrape together enough ingredients to make something that tasted more than a dirty boot left to soak had been few and far between, but Marian had savoured each of those meals.

They hadn't been able to afford much while her father had been alive, even less so after Malcolm died and left Leandra alone. The twins had just been fifteen, mother heartbroken. Marian hadn't had the time to mourn before they ran out of coin – strapped for work as they always were, and unable to turn to the Chantry lest Bethany get hauled off to the Circle. They ran out of food reserves within a fortnight.

Marian did what she could, what she had been doing since the day when, at age twelve, she learnt to weave a basket from the reeds gathered on the banks of the river, cutting her fingers on the sharp stems. She gathered herbs that father distilled into potions and poultices while she sat on the floor sorting through orders that she gathered from the villagers, gleaning more facts about embarrassing conditions and delicate states than she wanted to. In the evenings she read books until she fell asleep, and in the morning she peeled the pages from her skin, flimsy and stained.

Her childhood was never a matter of want – she was never left  _wanting_  – but it was about supplying. Every moment she was awake was spent doing work of some form or other to secure another day with food on the table and clothes on their backs.

Grief had been an excess she couldn't indulge in: after the funeral, dark veil of mourning crumpled up in her hands, she marched into the tavern and pinned the first mercenary she could find to the wall and demand he employ her. He'd laughed at her, and she punched him hard enough to draw blood from his nose, then asked him again. By the time he accepted, he had a new bump on his scarred and bruised nose-ridge.

The mercenary, Grayson, hadn't liked her – he thought she was a pain in the ass – but within a few intense weeks, she was swinging a sword nearly as well he was, muscles re-shaping her once-willowy form into a more imposing presence. She didn't quite compare to the burly men that now and then tried to come around and squeeze money out of the family, but she had speed and flexibility, and a vicious right fist that could knock a man twice her size off his feet.

Mother hadn't approved of the lengths her eldest went to ensure they were left undisturbed by Chantry and mercenary kind alike, even when the coin flowed easier into the household, even when Marian brought home the ingredients to make the smoked fish speciality typical for Kirkwall.

In the final weeks, waiting for the call to the front lines, she'd eaten alone. The guilt-inducing looks thrown her way were too much: Marian couldn't help that Carver liked to catch Grayson for drinks, and she couldn't stop Grayson from planting the seeds that made her younger brother enlist.

She followed merely to protect him – and it was what she had told mother when the call to Ostagar came. It was what she said when she came running back and forced them to flee.  _Protecting_.

For all the things she was good at, she really couldn't do the whole protection thing, apparently.

"Morning," came Aveline's voice from the door, rousing Hawke from her reverie. The guard-captain smiled, taking a seat at the table, and the mabari following in her steps immediately pounced on her, sniffing her hands, entire body wagging in enthusiasm. "Came by to return your dog. He's had his morning fun chasing the recruits around." The mabari gave a bark from under the table, then huffed as he settled down on the floor. "You're late to rise if you're only just having breakfast."

"Feel free to help yourself." Hawke's knife cut into the ripe peach, going clean through and then flicking the core onto a plate before she began slicing it into smaller pieces and putting them in her mouth. "Long day yesterday."

"I know," Aveline said, brow furrowing. "I wanted to come by and thank you for your involvement in that mess. If you hadn't been there, it could have become ugly."

"It was ugly already when I arrived."

They both fell silent for a moment, and Aveline eyed the delicious array of pastries and fresh fruits on the table, eventually settling on an apple. When her teeth sank into the fruit, the crisp sound made the dog huff under the table, offended at not being offered a treat. Bumping his head against Hawke's naked foot, she slipped a roll down under the table that he gobbled up from her hands in an instant.

"You oughtn't feed him Orlesian pastries," Aveline remarked. "He needs proper, Fereldan food, unless you want him to be a cowering nug."

"I don't think he makes much of a difference in what he eats." A happy bark came from under the table.

"You're spoiling him."

"No, I'm just carrying on the tradition mother started."

Ever since she picked up up the stray mabari on the outskirts of town, Leandra had delighted in feeding him only the sweetest, tooth-ache inducing pastries she could find, cooing over him like he was a cute little kitten, not a war hound. The silly canine, of course, was more than happy to be fed anything – he wasn't particularly discriminating.

Finishing off the apple, Aveline rose from the table, brushing off her ungloved hands. "What are your plans for the day, then?"

"I need to talk to the viscount about the matter he called me in to solve for him yesterday," Hawke said, pitting another peach. She was in no rush to get anywhere. Her breakfasts were her indulgence, now that she could pick and choose in her life: and she enjoyed dragging out sating the morning hunger, waking up slowly as the last remnants of the Fade left her.

"Complications with the Qunari?"

"At least."

"Knowing that you're involved isn't appeasing my concerns."

Hawke laughed. "Come now, Aveline, what could go wrong?"

Aveline scowled. "Don't give me a headache, I implore you."

* * *

Sitting in an uncomfortably carved seat in the viscount's office, Hawke felt her restlessness grow further as he couldn't simply sit down and talk to her. The whole Qunari issue had him on edge – from what she understood, he had no clue as to how effectively deal with their presence. The whispers in the grand hall, discontent rumblings and outright demands from citizens to have their family members taken back from the Qunari's grasp betraying as much.

With just the two of them, she could see the calm veneer slip further.

The viscount had kept her waiting, and after idling too long in his waiting room, she went out in the main hall of the keep, where citizens bustled and argued with guards and the seneschal's men alike, overhearing conversations echo and bounce against the walls and up against the thick rafters where sparrows flittered nervously.

A lone sparrow, grey feathers ruffled, zipped between the rafters and walls jerkily, almost in a state of panic. As the dim of the noon rush of new arrivals grew to thunderous levels, the bird was frightened past what its small body could endure, and with a few hasty moves the wings stopped flapping and it floated through the still air, crash-landing at her feet.

The seneschal had peeked out from his office at that point, and upon seeing the dead bird at her feet he wrinkled his nose. "Not another," he muttered, motioning for the nearby guard to deal with the inconvenience. Then, his attention had turned to her.

He wasn't too keen on her, to say the least, and Hawke suspected it was partially related to how her mother was pushing to have his son meet with the newly-risen noble. Or it could all be attributed to their mutual dislike – he saw right through the facade her mother had attempted to apply to her, that she was barely better than a brutish thug, just as she saw through him. A man who knew a system and how to work it to his own favour.

"The viscount will see you now," he'd said, not making any attempt to hide the drip of acid from his voice.

In the musty office, she found viscount Dumar as he was pouring over a stack of parchments written in the recognisable, controlled hand of Aveline – most likely reports, she surmised, gleaning a few scattered sentences about thefts and gangs before she sat down.

"Serah Hawke," he greeted without looking up, eyes scanning rapidly over the words.

"I've already heard from the guards the factual details of what happened," the viscount said, peeling himself away from the documents and beginning an anxious pacing behind his desk. "What I'm interested in understanding is your side."

"How big a problem are the anti-qunari sentiments as of yet?" She screwed around in the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position that didn't make her hips ache.

"Everyday, I have another story of someone who has converted to their heresy. The Arishok simply states that they're not my people anymore, and that they are his."

"You can't do anything about them?"

"And risk an incident?" A frustrated sigh passed from his lips. "Don't tell me it's going to get worse."

"It is," Hawke admitted. "The one who released the poison gas, she was an elf, a bit... Crazy... but she spoke of others supporting her.  _Your kind_ , as she put it. Humans, nobility, I don't know which, but I gathered they're quite influential." Then she shrugged her shoulders. "Or maybe she was just rambling, but I doubt it was that easy."

He sighed. "There's been rumblings. Lots of them. I suspected there were zealous undertones, and it seems I wasn't wrong. I wish I had been. This complication..." Viscount Dumar groaned, bringing one hand up to rub at his brow. "There  _was_ peace here, you know!"

"It could be salvageable."

"I pray to the Maker it is." Heaving a sigh, his tired blue eyes met hers, pleading. "Do what you can, whenever you can, to appease him. I can't risk an outright war."

There wasn't a handy reply to that: she still didn't get why people looked to her to be a saviour and helper and whatever else they could come up with. Varric had tried to explain it to her once, that it was an attitude she projected: Merrill maintained it was an aura, shimmering around her, setting people at ease to think they could safely put their lives in her hands. (Then Merrill would, without fail, blush, thinking she overstepped a boundary in their relationship.) Isabela just laughed at them both, and said Hawke had strong hands, which was part innuendo and part wink. Either way, she herself couldn't see it, but took their words for it.

However, one thing still bothered her, even as she accepted the precarious role offered to her by the viscount.

"Are you sure the Arishok didn't explain why he wanted me?" She brought up the matter again, hoping that since the viscount seemed to have put some amount of faith in her, there was some unspoken detail he was willing to divulge.

He gave her a questioning look. "Quite sure. He doesn't exactly take kindly to me. It seems he rather deliberately is aiming to offend me and make a point of how little respect he has."

The viscount then flung himself into a long tirade about the importance of her keeping up good diplomacy – you are acting, however unofficially, as an agent for the city, with Kirkwall's best at heart – and she listened, barely.

It wasn't that she didn't know how to act, it was just that, at times, she wasn't good at sticking to her supposed moral alignment. She knew, though, that he kept her in that strange position she now found herself in, because of that. The lecture, based on rumours of her darker and more ambiguous diversions that had gone on in the city in her four years there, was little more than a way for him to ease his own consciousness.

When she left the office, another sparrow, too wrought up by the strained voices and tearful mothers who'd lost sons and daughters to the Qun, landed in front of her. Its small head twitched before it became still, beak open, wings spread wide. Within a moment, a guard's gloved hand came and swept it up and away.

* * *

After the meeting with the viscount, Hawke went for a slow, meandering walk through the streets of Kirkwall, following their curving ways and steep steps that inevitably led to the docks, as per the city's construction. The docks, where the smell of tar hung thick and heavy, drying in the weak spring sunshine that managed to filter through the stretched-out wisps of clouds. The docks, where the Qunari waited – a pamphlet nailed to a door she passed deemed them ' _the growing, malignant lump of tumour threatening to amputate the city'._

She couldn't let go of the nagging wonder of who else lurked in the shadows, waiting to strike at the Qunari, and tentatively strayed close to the gates of the compound.

"Do you intend to enter?" the guard spoke in a neutral tone.

"I..." She wasn't sure. In truth, she had nothing to say. Not really.

He stepped aside with a shrug. "You are allowed, by orders of the Arishok."

The Arishok received her with the same apathy as previous, nothing revealed about what he thought of her and her unbidden visit. He offered a strained greeting, disinterested in asking anything further.

"I thought you should know that the elf wasn't operating on her own," she said. "While her threats were vague, they were aimed at the Qunari." Technically, at Hawke too, but she guessed it was only as an extension of considering her to act for them. "There are elements in the city that..."

"Did the viscount send you as a messenger?" he interrupted.

"No. I, ah, came of my own mind."

He rose from his seat and marched down the steps until he stood in front of her, chest rising gently as he spoke. "Your words are welcomed, though not unknown."

Behind him, she saw the Ashaad at his sides stand to attention, hands raising spears. The Arishok, with the smallest turn of his head, made them stand down, and they moved away from the two of them – though they were still at the edge of things, watching, waiting for her to overstep a line that would provoke them to act against her.

She craned her neck back to be able to see his face when he stood in front of her – the top of her head barely reached past his collarbone, and she was by no means short for a human. There was barely a foot between them, and she could smell the leather he wore, and underneath a darker, mustier fragrance. Most of all, she was painfully aware of how each word he spoke entranced her, his voice low and deliberate.

"I have not been blind to Kirkwall. To the festering cesspool it is, and to the zealots and their feeble words. We have done nothing to provoke them, yet they attempt to push our hand. But it is meaningless. No matter what they do, we will not leave until the demand that brought us here is satisfied."

She had a thing for voices. His voice... Had a strange, rippling effect on her.

"The viscount has been under the impression that you'd be departing soon."

The Arishok grunted. "He is a fool, then. There are no ships. This matter will take as long as needed." Voice hardened, hands tightened into fists at his sides. "The Qun makes it so."

A light salt-scented breeze brushed against them, making the long leather kilt he wore flutter against her shin.

"What is so important as to keep you here?"

There was a dark flash in his eyes. "An act of greed binds me here." He turned to look out over the docks, and she felt her breath shake at the rage she was gleaning, held behind his calm demeanor. "We are all denied Par Vollen until I alone recover what was lost under my command."

It wasn't the right time to ask. He was already turning, the wordless signal that there was nothing left to be exchanged between them. She shouldn't – and she couldn't stop herself. There was anger, and frustration; she could feel the hard gaze of his soldiers on her, and she was painfully aware that she was once again alone, on her own, in a viper's nest. In his territory, where she was as crushable as everyone else to him.

"Why did you send for me yesterday?" she blurted out. "What did I do?"

The Arishok didn't lash out at her – and she realised she hadn't even expected him to. What he did, however, was to reach his hand up and brush away the stray dark strands of hair that the ocean breezes had misplaced, and she nearly jumped under his touch, the knuckle of his thumb drawing a warm line across her forehead. A searing hot line across her skin, even after the hand fell to his side again – a blush spreading from that point through her body, and she suddenly found it difficult to meet his eyes.

"Because you, alone, of all the bas here, have worth." Then his voice settled back into the cold, clipped tone he normally maintained with her. "For now."


	3. Vanish With No Guile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello twisting the chronology of quests around!

It was partially Sebastian's fault.

After the business in the Harriman estate, he had insisted on paying her back somehow. They had met in the market, him out of his element, and she had to slap the hands of over-confident pickpockets away from his purse as he moved from stall to stall, trying to figure out what she needed. She didn't need anything, and he was awkwardly trying to hold on to some noble standard of returning a favour with a favour, much to her amusement.

Give a man a helping hand and suddenly he'll be head-over-heels with gratitude. And deep-rooted confusion about what choices to make in his life.

They still hadn't talked about what they had seen in there – but she noticed how he kept fluctuating between talking about Starkhaven and the Chantry of Kirkwall, uncertain about what action to take in the future. The desire demon had struck a chord, making him hesitate: where he had once been completely sure that he had the capability and righteousness to rule as a prince, he now faltered, worrying about his underlying intentions.

"Intention isn't everything. Nor is being right."

"That's not it, Hawke," he admonished.

"I know it's not, but I'm not a philosopher. You did what you thought was the best course of action, and despite it being with the intention of revenge, you broke a demon's hold over a family. That, if anything, is a good act. As far as I care to judge." She stretched, rolling her shoulders under the suit of armour. They both looked out of place, him in his polished white suit, catching the last rays of sunlight, the plates blinding to look at.

Their discussion followed the same pattern: looking for angles to get through to him, but he would still have that wrinkle between his brow, piercing blue eyes distant even as he pointed at a new trinket glittering on a shopkeeper's finger, asking if she wanted an useless bauble to decorate herself with. Her patience was thin for these wastelands of indecision that he lingered in: to her, things either were or were not. The points in-between places were not affordable luxuries to her.

She recognised the stall they were lingering at, the thick velvets and intricate laces spread out over a table, rich colours familiar. "We're going in circles again, aren't we?" she sighed.

He chuckled. "That we are."

It was partially her fault.

Sebastian darted off down an alley, spotting the perfect gift, and left to wait for him, she leaned against a wall and settled into idling. The art of doing nothing.

Half-gone into daydreams – of salty air and dark voices – she was only partially aware of her surroundings, but present enough to notice that the Chantry sister who stuck out like a sore thumb was making a beeline straight for her, smoothly moving through the crowd, firmly set on Hawke.

The Chantry sister, smooth tongue and quick wit, hadn't even divulged her name, nor asked for Hawke's, and not once had she let the hood she wore fall back so that more than a vague outline of her lower face was seen. Unsoiled robes – no wrinkles, no dirt, even though she had dared the streets of evening Lowtown, the dye still vivid and undiminished by sunlight. Words striking with pinpoint precision to tug Hawke into action, fuelled by rage and frustration and guilt – she wasn't above acting on trying to settle those feelings.

The sister had smiled, speaking of protecting a charge and escort to freedom. Of an act kindness.

Talk like that caught her off-guard, and without Varric to strip away the meaningless words and prod deeper into the actual meaning, she was quick to accept. He said once,  _Hawke, when read right, you're an open book_. Pluck the strings, and she would dance in another's hand. Varric, her sarcastic shield who was better with pure business deals, possessed a knack for knowing; surely he could have averted it and eased the strange churn of her gut even as the Chantry sister smiled. Only he wasn't there, and once engaged, she rarely backed out. All or nothing.

"Meet me in three hours, at this address." Slip of paper trading hands, and the sister vanishing, the ebbing masses of the market taking her out of sight quickly.

It was definitely Sebastian's fault, who approached her with a soft package in hands, asking about the sister he had seen her speaking to. When she explained the call for help, he had urged her to answer. He believed the best of all souls – some days, she felt inclined to try and not prove him wrong. Most days, the flip side just happened. He reminded her of the Chantry sisters in Lothering, who had stood there in the morning as she passed them on the road, mouths stretched into thin lines of disapproval at the blood crusting her sword. Her hands did what they seemed destined to do, and her head dealt with the aftermath best it could.

Agreeing to help, she sent him off to let him settle errands and convince Anders to come along – the mage could use an airing from his Darktown clinic. She had business in the Hanged Man.

Isabela and Varric were sitting at their usual table in the corner, their innuendo-fuelled conversation halting briefly to wave Hawke over and get the scatterbrained waitress to serve a glass of the finest swill they had. It was that night of the week when the irresistible pull of Isabela and Varric roped them all together, their social cheer quelling all resentment and hostility between the others, lubricated by copious amounts of alcohol.

Hawke hadn't intended on coming, but it was the likely place where she would be able to intercept Fenris and convince him to come along to the meeting that, in hindsight, was not giving her a good feeling.

"So Hawke," Isabela drawled, leaning forward. "Not seen you around here for a while."

"Got a proposal for Fenris," she replied earnestly.

"Knowing you," Varric interjected, smug all-knowing grin gracing his lips, "it's not the good kind of physical proposal."

Isabela wagged her finger. "No business on Wednesdays! I swear, you're intent on ruining my fun."

"Sorry Isabela. I'll make it up to you one day." Hawke smiled, taking a cautious sip of the indistinguishable liquid swivelling around in her glass, then decided to simply not have anymore of it when the burn ravaged her throat and made her wheeze.

Merrill practically bounced in and squeezed herself in between Varric and Isabela on the bench, flushed face and big smile, eyes wide in anticipation as the pirate queen began to explain the concept of body shots. Fenris, entering a minute later, pulled up a chair and sat down next to Hawke, shooting dirty looks at Merrill. The Dalish, ever oblivious, touched a finger to Isabela's cup and let a frosty chill trickle out, much to Isabela's amusement. "Oh, kitten," she laughed, peeling her frozen lip from the rim of the cup with great care to not tear skin, "you need to practice your party tricks!"

"This any better?" With a concentrated furrow of her brow, she pulled the remaining whiskey out of Isabela's cup and shaped it into her likeness, the liquid trembling and rippling before freezing into a solid mass.

When Hawke saw Fenris's rage beginning to build at the flagrant display of magic, she seized the opportunity to tug at his shoulder feathers and make him lean close to whisper a proposal.

"You brought your sword?" Foolish question – both of them were in a habit of never leaving their respective mansions unarmed, though for vastly different reasons. Fenris, who thought he saw Tevinter slavers in all the dark places of the city, and never went anywhere unarmed: Hawke, who was just in the habit of walking into trouble.

"Need you ask?" Fenris smiled darkly. He did at least enjoy the outlets she gave him.

"You up for some work?"

"When you say that, it's not an offer."

Across the table, Isabela was complaining. "How am I meant to drink it now?"

"Suckle it, Rivaini," Varric offered.

* * *

She was torn when she saw the charge. Even more so when he couldn't speak for himself.

 _Surely no one would like to suffer like this!_ The sister's indignation rung in her ears.

Ketojan was a prison. A Qunari held within a stitched, chained and collared prison of flesh, and all he got across to Hawke were low grunts and rumbles. The sister claimed he was a lone survivor of a fight between an Arishok and Tal-Vashoth platoon, and that his will was to re-join his exiled comrades hiding on the Wounded Coast. Her smooth voice whispered in Hawke's ear, telling of the way there, telling her of the pain he must be in – how he simply must have a better fate awaiting him at the other end.

The templar that acted as her bodyguard didn't let his sword drop once as he followed their every movement, sneer on his thin face.

"Is there a leash or..." Hawke asked, looking up at the majestic dark-clad Qunari, his head tilted slightly so that the slits in his mask were angled at her. A leash, like he was a dog to be walked. She felt disgusted at herself for suggesting it.

"Command, and he will follow."

The templar sealed the hatch they descended through behind them, the darkness near-complete. With a tap of his staff against the damp ground, Anders lit up the room they were cramped in together with a flickering cold-blue light emanating from the tangled mess of branches making up the top of his elaborate staff.

"Are you sure about this?" Fenris asked, eyeing the Qunari mage doubtfully.

"There's something off about all of this," she remarked, gut rebelling against her.

One wall of the cellar had been broken down, eroded by moisture, revealing a cobble-stoned passageway with water seeping out through the cracks, a constant trickle echoing against the walls. Ketojan had to lean forward as he walked, the collar cutting into his flesh as he hunched over awkwardly, clearly unused to being anything other than upright. They pressed on in silence.

Eventually the small passage gave way to more room, the walls became drier, and she followed the navigational pointers the sister had scribbled down on a map, drawn with a quick hand and bleeding ink that stained further in the humid environment. The path mapped out for them wound up and down complex set of stairs and through shafts where the air was colder, the edge of the precipice sometimes giving way and sending pebbles flying down into the depths, clattering ominously as they fell without end.

The band of thugs were not a surprise, nor their bias against Qunari – what did surprise her was forceful reaction of Ketojan. When one of the bandits attempted to gut her where was standing, Ketojan had sent him flying backwards with a powerful shockwave, followed by fires setting the clothes of the others ablaze, and they flung themselves around wildly, crying and screaming as Sebastian (murmuring prayers of forgiveness, as ever) picked them off with clean shots to the head.

After they were all dead, Ketojan was still not calm, fires flickering wildly around him, unwilling to listen to her pleas to have him calm down. Thus, she did stepped into the fires.

"Hawke, what are you –" Anders cried out, but she did not back out.

Reaching through the flames, she put her hands on his face, palms cupping his covered cheeks. She had never seen a Qunari mage up close: the golden mask shifted under her touch, but was firmly secured to his horns with red ribbons that dug into carved indentations in the stumps that remained of what must have been once-exquisite ebony horns. Ketojan gave out a groan from between his stitched-together lips, but didn't react otherwise. Underneath the netting covering his eyes, the eyelids flickered, covering the darkly glittering pupils.

"Obey," she said firmly. She wasn't sure it would work – and the flames were beginning to warm her up to an uncomfortable temperature, though she herself was not yet on fire.

The flames died out in an instant, leaving only a smell of singed cloth and warm metal – her hands ached slightly in her gauntlets, and she broke the touch to remove them, joints glowing as they slipped off.

"Are you in pain?" she asked, dropping the gauntlets onto the ground where a cooling spell by Anders sent steam rising from them.

Ketojan merely growled, a gurgled noise from a strangled throat.

"That sister certainly interpreted a lot from a few grunts," Fenris said.

"Don't the Qunari cut out the tongues of their mages?" Anders asked, grimacing in pain.

To answer his question, Ketojan opened his mouth as far as the thread keeping it together would allow, and she saw nothing but teeth and red scars in there. "They do," she replied, suppressing a shudder.

* * *

There was no way around it: she was a terrible diplomat.

The bodies, still warm, lay on the hard sand, blood gathered in large pools from where the fatal wounds were slowly ceasing to flow. They had only followed a trail of bodies that led to her, and she had walked right into their arms. Right into the perfectly set trap, where undoubtedly whichever side died would cause political ramifications.

In her defence, Arvaarad hadn't given her much chance to negotiate when she questioned why Ketojan had to die. Not out of hostility, just curious – if it was the Qun, she simply wished to understand. Apparently his temper had been reduced to nothing, and her insolent question what made him snap, raising his sword and charging at her after binding the mage with a magical rod, his cry of rage ringing against the cliffs, then mingling with the shattering noise of blades clashing.

The blood spattered on her skin was drying, coming off in flakes when she scratched at it.

In Arvaarad's defence, he hadn't stood much of a chance against her. Fighting against Qunari was... Interesting. Despite what the Qunari at the docks claimed, the Tal-Vashoth weren't far off: equally muscled, equally slow and just as lethally precise in their strikes, and she was sweating when the final Ashaad hit the ground with a heavy thud, fingers cramping around a spear.

This, if anything, was bound to cause that trickle of a headache that had been strumming in her head for the last two weeks to finally blossom out full-force. It could be constructed to be a vicious attack on Qunaris, perhaps enough to tip the cup of the Arishok – not that she could predict what the outcome would be, but by now, she was done predicting. Nothing ever turned out the way it was meant to, just a chain of messes tugging her towards disaster.

She sheathed her sword and looked to see how the Qunari mage was faring, kept near-frozen in shimmering light. "How are you?" she asked.

Ketojan – Saarebas, she mentally corrected – pointed with great effort at the rod that lay at Arvaarad's feet, grunting.

The peculiar rod was warm in her hands, and she turned it over, not understanding how it was meant to work. Without a conscious effort, the air trembled and then a great shockwave rumbled, emanating from the rod and easing the strange glowing bonds that kept Saarebas frozen on the ground.

Saarebas's chains rattled as he rose from where he was kneeling on the ground, breathing in deep.

"I am unbound," he stated, voice gravely and with an unreal quality, rumbling from a deep depth beyond the Veil. With no tongue in his mouth to carry words, she figured it was no stretch of the imagination to consider that he was using magic itself to speak. "It is... Wrong." He turned to Hawke, twisting his neck awkwardly as if in great pain. "Your intention was misguided, but I thank you. You deserve honour."

"Honour?" She scoffed. "I just killed a bunch of your fellows and you want to credit me with honour?"

"They died against a superior foe. It was..." His lips worked but no sound came out: he swallowed, gurgling, and then tried again. "A good test for  _them_." The way he spat out 'them', it was a strange disgust intertwined with deep respect. As if he was as conflicted as she was.

"That's me, the grinding stone of the Qunari forces."

The gurgle in his throat returned, but it sounded more like an attempt to laugh from someone who had forgotten how to long ago. "You are worthy of following, Basvaarad."

"And now? What will you do?"

"Arvaarad spoke the Qun. Death awaits me."

She wasn't having this conversation. She wasn't standing on a beach in the darkness of the night, with a group of dead Qunari felled by her hand – and no matter how hard she tried to pull herself out of the grim reality of her situation, she could not.

"You're free and yet still you wish to die?" Anders, who had kept quiet, now flared with rage, shouting at Saarebas. "That's... Bullshit!"

"I want to live by the Qun. Death is the answer to what has happened to me. Death isn't my will, but it is what must be."

He didn't want to die, but to feel honest to himself, he had to. It made sense, in the way that Qunari made sense. Yet, it was his choice, and by extension, his freedom to end himself, even if it made her feel... Torn.

"Hawke!" Anders was at her side, his voice trembling with anger – his voice partially not his, but with the distinct undertone of Justice. "You can't let him do this!"

"Anders," she said softly, putting a hand on his chest. "I'm giving him control of his own life. Don't take it away because his choice isn't yours."

Anders gave her a long, hard look, then took a step back – still seething. "I'll go see if Sebastian and Fenris found a way to get back to Kirkwall. I'm tired of crawling through piss-drenched sewers with you." He stalked off to find the other companions, a flicker of blue glow before the thick bushes closed behind him.

With just the two of them, Saarebas gave her a short nod, lips moving long before the voice followed. "You know a remarkable amount of certainty and borders. Know that if you were to accept the Qun, your role would change little."

Then, he reached his hands out and touched her face, mirroring the paths her fingers had taken over his mask earlier, soft tips brushing across her eyebrows and pressing down on her cheekbones. His skin was cold against hers, his touch hesitant at times, almost trembling, but he never wavered even as he ghosted across her lips and her tongue unconsciously slid out and connected with him, sending electric pulses down her spine. He tasted of winter, of snowflakes caught on her tongue in a childhood long gone – then he was gone.

"Remember this day." He flicked his hands and within a moment, his entire body was engulfed in flames. Hawke backed away slowly as he fell forward onto his knees, not a sound coming from his mouth. As abruptly as the flames had swallowed him, so did they withdraw, and the body collapsed on the ground where it turned to ash on impact.

The winds crushing against the coastline carried his remains away quickly, leaving the golden mask and the iron collar. Curiosity getting the better of her, she picked up the mask from the pile of ashes and held it in her hand, gloved fingertips running over the jagged edge and bars that criss-crossed the eyes. It was oddly cool to the touch, even through the thickness of her gauntlets.

In the distance, the lights of Kirkwall glowed, a beacon calling her home.

* * *

 _Certainty_.

Hawke knew that she was a provider, a fighter, a noble on the rise. It was her dirty hands that advanced them backwards to mother's former glory, and it was enough – for the moment, to see her mother smile in the garden in the morning. To know that there was at least some bliss, and that perhaps she would find herself immersed in it one day, in a future not too distant.

Until then, she knew that she could cleave her way through foes twice her size, and tear a man's ear off with her bare hands when deep enough in her battle-dreams, too detached to hold her strength back. That was a good knowledge to have, that she had the ability to kill a man or a dozen and yet sleep at night. Most nights. She wouldn't sleep this one – perhaps she could wait it out in the study with one of Varric's books to amuse herself. He'd penned a new story, about Sparrowe and some exotic foreign dignitaries charming her in lust-fuelled negotiation sessions. If nothing else, when he made coin on her, he had the decency to send her a copy.

Ahead of her, Anders slipped on some treacherous rocks, cursing briefly before launching himself back into the argument he was having with Fenris about the fate of Saarebas.

"That was Petrice." Sebastian, who had been quiet since they had begun the escort, spoke up next to her.

"Hmm?" She fell in step with him, letting the arguing Fenris and Anders walk ahead on their own.

"The Chantry sister. Or mother, as she is nowadays. I cannot fathom why she would do a thing like this."

"You mean setting me up to get implicated?"

"It must have been a mistake."

"Take a good, long look at this, Sebastian. Then tell me, as a Prince, what you see."

"A woman walking blind into a storm."

"Her? Or me?"

"Both, perhaps."

 _Borders_.

Drawing exact lines that determined where Hawke could go and not was one thing: following those markings another. She kept her own codex for these kind of things, and it said firmly that she was not to intervene in matters not hers. The scheming of Kirkwall had made it hers, though. Recalling the threat spoken by the crazed elf – that she was now counted as an enemy to a phantom cause, shifting and moving at the periphery of her knowing...

In her hands, she still held Saarebas's mask, and slowing her step to drift from where Sebastian walked, immersed in his own conflict again, she put the mask against her face. It was too big, yet pressed down on her nosetip and rested on her eyebrows if she walked smoothly, keeping the motion in her hips as noblewomen did when trying to tempt a lover to their rooms. If she pressed it a bit harder, the weight of it dug into her skin, and the firmer she pushed it against herself, the colder it got, until she felt her teeth chattering.

There were other borders, too. The firm line she tried drawing and re-drawing in her mind with the Arishok, and then erased itself when she tripped across the memory of his thumb touching her. Just a touch. Just a brief moment. Just that: a moment, and nothing else could come from it. She would treasure it, a shining fragment of what could have been, but not let it blossom out. She couldn't.

It wasn't to be if she had to break her own rules into pieces, she decided, removing the mask and flinging it out into the dark sea that surged against the steep, dark cliffs.


	4. Pain's Deceit

" _No_."

As was Hawke's routine when sleepless (which occurred frequently now that she was, however unofficially, considered an intermediary between two opposing forces in the city), upon arriving home she had slinked into the study and lit a few candles before flopping down in an armchair and picking up a volume. The pages passed her hands, but nothing was absorbed, just words transitioning in front of her eyes that meant nothing. Sighing, she had gone to try another, but no matter which poetry volume she tore out of the shelves, or which thinly-plotted erotica adventure penned by Varric, none of it could ease the knot tying within her, growing more tangled by the hour.

Owning up to mistakes was nothing new. If a misstep happened, she would be the first to acknowledge it. It was more the concern about surviving the admission this time around. Arishok was an indecipherable conundrum.

When the sun had risen high enough and the morning delivery of milk knocked discreetly on the kitchen side-door, rattling the windows, she re-dressed. Fresh clothing – the old ones stinking of Lowtown gutters and saltwater sewers – and on top she threw on a hauberk, looping a belt around her waist.

On the threshold out, she had hesitated, looking back at the weapon's rack. It felt downright wrong to leave home without her precious sword – she was underdressed enough as it was, without a blade she might as well go naked. If it came to it she was ready to give some bite, she thought grimly, pondering the possible fates awaiting her in front of his throne.

To stand before Arishok alone with his intense gaze fixated upon her while she explained the entirety of it – how she had walked into a trap set up by a Chantry sister, and killed Arvaarad in self-defence as he had launched an attack on her – was relaxing. The tightness in her yielded, word by word, until she petered out, waiting for him to... Well, react.

She did in no way doubt that if Arishok was so inclined, he could have her killed in the blink of an eye. That he hadn't, however, was... Something. He listened intently, face honed into a neutral mask that revealed nothing of the processes working behind.

"No." When he spoke, he was... Not angry. Not amused.

"No?" she echoes, unsure exactly what he was referring to.

"I find it hard to believe a human woman could defeat Arvaarad." He didn't believe her.

She was offended. She had witnessed what his warriors could do – their muscled bodies well-honed weapons, not to mention the sharp blades they wielded with alarming alacrity. That she had survived an encounter was admirable, a simple fact, and he was denying her that right.

"Messere," she said hotly, words leaving her mouth like angry daggers, "have I ever deceived you? I did it, and I submit myself to your punishment for the transgression. My blade, my hands, are responsible for their deaths. "

Arishok's voice darkened. "Unlikely." Then, seeing the furor that must be straining to burst open in her, poorly concealed, he added: "If you truly bested Arvaarad, I request a display of your skill."

"A performance? Does that include dancing and singing, or would you rather I spare you the horrendous sight?"

Her poor attempt at a joke drew nothing from him. "Prove yourself against my men. Spar with them." He barked out a succession of words in his native language, and the idling soldiers perked up and quickly began gathering in a semi-circle in an empty spot of the dusty yard, weapons at the ready, all impeccably polished and maintained. All of them nearly twice her size, each and every one of them regarding her with doubt and disbelief.

"As tempting as the offer is," Hawke spoke slowly, watching the shuffle of half-naked bodies, "if I succeed, what will you do to me?"

"You will be basalit-an," he replied tersely, descending from the throne and moving past her to stand at the side of the circle, waving a hand at one of his to step in before she had even accepted.

"And if I don't?" Hawke lingered at the edge, rolling her shoulders and stretching her limbs as she sized up her opponent. Sparring wasn't truly her thing: she had never found a partner who could match up to her for any extended period, and it all quickly turned into a dull rehearsal of what she was capable of, but never being more than an exercise.

Also, she had never sparred with actual weapons that possessed a risk of causing severe injury.

"Failure is expected. You will be another bas, however one intruding upon our grounds. We may be forced to take measures against such a trespass, as is within our rights." There was a devilish gleam in his eyes as he spoke.

She swallowed. "Rules?"

"You shall know when you overstep," Arishok said. "Basra, will you or will you not?" His patience was running thin, she realised, and abandoning her stalling effort, she raised her weapon and waited for the Qunari to begin.

Their weakness was easy to identify: they were generally slow to start, but once brought to full flush, they were unstoppable juggernauts. All she needed was to find the perfect moment as soon as she could and pounce upon it: a precision strike to disable them completely. At least, that was the idea she worked on with Tal-Vashoth and that had been applied successfully with the Arishok's own soldiers.

"Karasten!" Arishok barked.

They were not going to treat Hawke to any favours – at the first clash of weapons she felt that the Karasten was not testing her, but intent on giving her a proper beat-down should she fail to stand against him. Thankfully for her, he was also easily outdone, and after a minute of strafing around him and avoiding him at all costs, he had enough and came right at her, growl rumbling low in his throat.

She smoothly side-stepped the lumbering Karasten, bringing her sword to rest a thumb's width from the back of his head: when he stopped and pulled back the edge sheared off some of his hairs. _Precise_. The smile of superiority tugging at her lips had to be forcefully restrained.

"Interesting," the Arishok commented from the side as she lowered her blade, Karasten walking off to the side as a new challenger entered the circle. "Again."

"As you please," she grunted, but she was secretly drawing immense enjoyment from it. A part of her was strumming up inside, unfolding – the thrill of the battle unlocking that hidden depth of her that ravelled in it.

* * *

 _Footwork, feint, don't let them see_. Hawke reminded herself as she thrust the blade in a wild, mad dash towards another Qunari, stopping her blade before it touched their skin.  _Let them see the same discipline they speak so highly of_. To highlight to them that she was as much a warrior as they were, she never once cut them, never once drew blood – an unspoken agreement on both sides it seemed, or perhaps that they never did find the same opportunity to lash against her. It could be so easy, a misjudged distance, especially with their naked chests – in the rapidly passing mass of flesh that swirled in front of her, red paint and white skin, all too easy to accidentally cut them.

She had to stay on her toes, all too aware that if they even grazed her lightly with their axes and swords, she may not survive.

The Arishok remarked that it was madness to let women fight, but he seemed unwilling to let her go, pitting her against new fighters, each one stronger than the previous one, giving short comments between the bouts. "Qunari do not let our women fight," he once remarked when she was catching her breath, wiping at the sweat pooling at her neckline in the spring sun.

"Why?"

"It is simply not done."

She'd shrugged at the notion before flinging herself headfirst into the fray again. Fenris had mentioned it to her once, that she should expect a certain amount of... Disbelief in that regard, when dealing with the Qunari.

 _Don't scratch their skin. Survive. Go home and sleep_.

In the undercurrents of her whirling form, ripping through the men with fierceness that gave no reprieve, she felt the past night's exhaustion begin to remind itself. She was running on the last stretch of energy before the inevitable collapse where she would need sleep or perish. In the back of her mind, she was already beginning to call forth dreams to wander in the Fade. Dreams awaiting beyond the consciousness, of vivid reds and pale ghosts that tasted of dust and musk, of a single drop of sweat rolling down a carved stomach.

 _Tongue, running across the taut pectorals, tasting the salt and musk, burning on the heat emanating from the skin_... If she was blushing, it was just the heated blood of battle-lust. Nothing else.

"There is a tenseness in your movement," the Arishok remarked from somewhere behind her. "A jerking of your limbs as you walk. Conflicts within you."

The Arishok's eyes were all too keen.

"How kind of you to notice," she grunted out, pushing the vision of sampling the taste of warm Qunari skin from her mind. "Do let me know what else you observe."

A deep breath before she called out for the next to step into the ring – this had to be her last, she was feeling the last reserves of energy draining quickly from her. Another deep breath, to make her final show of strength, to tap into what little she had left.

Confident, she whirled around to meet the next combatant, blade connecting with yet another – except that it was a darker blade, differently crafted. Sharper, thicker, heavier. The Arishok grunted and with barely a push of his arm sent her reeling backwards, struggling to regain her footing.

Had she fallen asleep? Attempting a quick jab towards his chest, he blocked her effortlessly, as if swatting at a bothersome fly.

"You overwhelm your opponent," he stated, unlocking their blades and taking a step backwards, as if giving her the courtesy to rethink her foolish attacks that would not work on him. "Fast, ferocious, unrelenting. He barely has time to comprehend what you are doing before he is dead."

Licking her lips, her pulse quickened. It wasn't a dream. "Going to call it honourless?"

"It is not. Merely different." Another move countered without even a beat in his voice. "Merely you."

This had not been a part of the agreement, a part of her mind screamed – perhaps logic – and that she should withdraw lest... Something... Happened. Another part of Hawke sparked, jolting to life with an inexorable zeal, throwing her eagerly at the challenge he posed.

"Where do you go?" the Arishok asked, voice calm even as he brought his axe down to clash against hers. As ever when he questioned her, the same lecturing tone was used, just like when he disparaging the city around him and drawing vague parallels to a Qun he would not explain.

"What?" she pressed out, trying to stand against his brutality: each parried strike hit her with a crushing force, making bones ache and muscles scream in agony.

"Your mind wanders as you fight. Whereto?"

To the mystical Qun she barely knew of; to the way he infuriated her at times, like now, superior and knowing it, dangling it above her head. To the less chaste places, where she could picture tracing the lines his muscles drew downwards on his torso, or touching mouth to mouth. To the places she never dared tread, never would – boundaries and lines, not to be crossed but in the dark recesses of her own mind.

"Nowhere."

At that moment, she misjudged a twitch in his muscles and dove into his blade, her left shoulder taking the edge straight on. The unmistakable sound of breaking chain-mail, torn clothes and cut flesh nearly made her scream, but she bit down hard into her tongue to suppress it, staggering backwards as the first wave of pain abated.

He gave her a few deep breaths to recover, the air stinging the nostrils as she inhaled and exhaled as deeply as possible without opening her mouth, teeth firmly dug into tongue. Pain was just a distraction, easily conquered, denied with a conscious effort. Spitting out copper-tasting saliva, she pulled herself up. The left arm hurt with each movement, pain shooting out in vicious bursts, but determined, she raised her sword again, nodding at the Arishok.

Determination was underestimated. It was a beast, growling low and deep within her that clung on steadfastly: it was the same essence that tugged at her heart at night when she doubted, it was the force that drove her through depths to re-emerge. Unwavering, undaunted even at impossible odds.

The wound stung, but she gritted her teeth together and brought her sword up to deflect another blow, pushed back into a defensive crouch. Victory was slipping from her quickly, his relentless onslaught impossible to counter.

The coil within, pulled tight, finally snapped.

Drawing on the frustration and rage and humiliation at being bested by that arrogant mystery of a man, at having Arishok doubt her who had never been dishonest or deceitful with him, she let out a pent-up growl and sprung up from the half-kneeling position. The window during which the surprise turn would be of use to her was minimal, if it even existed: she threw all her concerns to the wind and damn it all, she just had to inflict something upon him, for everything he had done to her, for all the seeds he had put in her mind. That he even had the audacity to distrust her made red flash in front of her eyes.

Leaping at him from the side, she pressed her feet into his waist as she landed chest against chest, sinking against him as he breathed in, hand grasping for anything to hold on to before he shrugged her off.

With her left hand she seized the back of his head, fingers catching in his smooth white hair, while she struck the pommel roughly against his nose. He blinked as blood came out in a single, quick spurt, leaving a trail down his lips and chin. Grinning, crazed with blood rage and the rush and  _at least she had dented him, a tiny dent_ , she smashed her forehead against his in an unthinking headbutt. The collision of his hard skull against hers ignited a ringing between the ears, and her grip on his hair eased as she felt his hands tugging her off of him.

She fell on the hard ground, the air knocked out of her and bearings lost. In the moment it took to overcome the white flash of painful light, she vaguely noted that the Arishok had one foot on the flat side of her sword, the other lightly pressing down on her chest. His own blade was pointed at her, and eyes able to focus once again, she could look up at him towering above her.

There was a flicker of a new facial expression, the corners of his mouth less downward. "Almost." He removed the blade from the threatening position and stepped off her, but she remained flat on the ground, the ordeal he had put her through making her body ache with a burning sensation. Every nerve was lit up, frayed and shaking, blood coursing with the aftermath.

"I was wrong." A hand offered, and she hesitated, looking between his hand and face until he simply grabbed and pulled her up onto her feet with such force that she felt little more than a feather to him. "You are to be feared and honoured, Hawke. A battlefield will be stronger with you there."

When he brought her up to a standing position, her head was still swimming, and he didn't relinquish his hold on her immediately. Nausea was rising up through her, pain pushing it down, and her fingers dug into his forearm harder to steady herself while she prayed he would not notice.

The men dispersed, their fun distraction of the morning over, though she noted that none of them seemed as dour as when it had begun.

Retching a few times, partially out of hunger and partially fear, she swallowed it back, leaning heavily on his arm that took her weight without tensing. At least she was going above and beyond to adhere to the viscount's plea of giving the Arishok whatever he asked.

When they were relatively alone in the yard, his eyes narrowed and he pulled her closer, tugging at the broken chain-mail to inspect what he had inflicted. The soft pad of thumb ran along the sore and bruised edge of the incision, eliciting a hiss from her.

"No reason to squirm, little one," he said brusquely, but withdrew his hand. "For a warrior, you have too few marks of battle," he remarked, letting go, fingers covered in her blood. "It will make a fine scar."

It took a beat, then she laughed once, an abrupt burst that quieted down as suddenly as it had emerged. So he had looked at her naked body in the bath. She peeked up at him and seeing the swath of blood across the lower half of his face, she reached up her right hand to brush at the crusting remains. He wrinkled his nose at her touch, and she withdrew, stepping back cautiously.

There was a pause of silence, the moment tense, before he inclined his head forward.

"Thank you, Hawke."

"For letting you wreck me?" She tore off a piece of her tunic at the back and bunched it against the wound, pressing down hard to stop the slow trickle. "You're welcome, though it may take a week or two before I can do a repeat performance..."

"It was amusing, indeed, but not the reason I asked you to do it. I wanted my men to know what you are capable of: it would be a waste to lose more of them to you."

She narrowed her eyes. "You said you didn't believe my words..."

"I found them hard to believe, but nonetheless, I know a warrior's spirit when I see it. I recognise that you have been touched by many wars, and to not discourage my men from holding a misguided belief to best you is unwise."

"So you're not going to punish me?"

"No. In the end, the result was for Saarebas to die. The path taken to achieve it is as it is."

The Arishok leaned down and picked up her sword from where it had been discarded on the ground like a forgotten cast-off, and slid it into the scabbard before offering it, hilt first, back to her. As she was still tending to the wound, he undid the harness buckle on it and slid one strap over her right shoulder, bringing the other two round her back and ribs to meet across the chest.

Hawke found it an oddly intimate act as he secured the buckles, the Arishok not pulling them too tight or letting them hang too loose, the action familiar to him as his hands worked, the blood still on them staining the leather strap. There was warmth, seeping through chain-mail and cloth, and his breath ruffling her hair, stroking the sensitive scalp.

It ended all too soon, leaving a strangled moan hanging on the tip of her tongue, a plea to have him stay there just a moment longer, or a night, or...

"Thank you, Arishok," she pressed out, bowing her head and avoiding looking at him directly.

* * *

Carver had told her about the dangers of battle rage at Ostagar – an anecdote he picked up while getting some ridiculously hideous tattoo done with some other soldiers from his platoon. Battle rage. The tingling in her veins, the buzzing in her head, as delicious and intoxicating a rush as it was, also posed certain dangers. That pains, even the life-threatening ones, were dimmed as the rage pulsated through one's body, leaving you a trembling wreck afterwards. Possibly a dead, twitching wreck, if untreated wounds allowed to fester. At best, you would recover with enough red meat and rest.

She had overheard the Ash warriors – that refused to acknowledge her existence, even when their mabaris slobbered alongside hers, running in circles around her feet – talking of it, too. How they all strove to achieve that state and thread the balance between life and death as they swept through enemies in a wild berserker rage. When they skirmished at the edges of the field beneath Ostagar, she would watch, perched high on the white ruins, in awe.

The darkspawn had not been shy to draw too close, scout patrols far ahead of the horde itself, eagerly throwing themselves at the bored soldiers waiting for them. The Ash warriors, in particular, delighted in the opportunities, and she revelled in their displays.

After one such encounter, a lone Ash warrior, the paint on his naked torso streaked with dark blood and sweat, stumbled through the camp past her, drunk on the ambrosia of rage and fury, before he had collapsed in a heap in the medical tent, sputtering out a cry for his mabari hound, then dying.

She thought of it as she stumbled into the estate, slamming the door shut and sinking back against it, sliding down to the floor as cold sweat trickled down her brow.

"Bodahn!" she bellowed, beginning to claw at the belts keeping her hauberk in place, fingers too sweaty and unruly to open them, slipping on the hooks and clasps. It was rare for her to struggle with such a simple task – years of wearing armour had taught her to undress them blindly.

Leandra appeared in in the antechamber, face turning an ashen grey that matched her hair. "Marian!" she exclaimed in horror, clapping a hand over mouth as she kneeled down next to her daughter. "What have you done?"

"It's nothing, just a scratch." There was a slur in her voice Marian didn't like, reminiscent of Carver when he stumbled past her at Ostagar, drunk.  _No_. He'd never gotten drunk at Ostagar, his nerves hadn't taken it, just the smell had made him hurl in the bushes... But the slur and Ostagar, there was a connection, yet it eluded her. "I just need some air." She punched the flat of her palm against her own chest, frustrated with the damn buckles now. "Off... Need these off..."

She tried to rise but found her legs had folded beneath her, boneless and unwilling to comply. Ostagar, why was Ostagar on her mind. It lay years in the past, far beyond her reach and power.

Everything was too light, too thin, the very air itself in the house unable to still her lungs screaming for more.

Leandra was pulling her close, cradling her head in those thin and surprisingly strong arms. "Bodahn," Leandra shouted, her voice cracking and drifting at the edges of awareness.

Marian could go to sleep right there. The little wound was just a hot little itch, barely a fly bothering her, she could wait until tomorrow to still it. The Fade was beckoning, offering dreams to envelop her, too tempting to refuse.


	5. All This Killing Time

Having grown up with two mages that used her scraped knees and shallow cuts to practice their craft on, Hawke recognised the feeling of healing magic knitting her flesh together with cool energy, and savoured the sensation. It was familiar, homely, reminiscent of other days, of times past – now outside of her grasp. The cold dread of realisation, that no family hand was alive that could perform this on her, no person she trusted...

With a start, her eyes opened and her right hand shot up and caught the wrist of the healing mage, twisting it around as father had taught her – " _in case Bethany... Or I... Marian, you need to know how"_.

" _Marian, please, focus."_

" _This is making me uncomfortable, father."_

 _Malcolm, exasperated."There's dangers you'll never understand, dangers that your sister will have to face. And there are other mages out there, that are far less kind than Bethany and I."_

 _His hand on her wrist, pressing down at spots that meant nothing to her."Even without lyrium and templar training, there are tricks. There is always a way." He let go. "Now try again."_

 _She closed her hand over his wrist, giving it a quick twist._

" _Press down harder."_

 _Obeying, Marian watched the flame in Malcolm's hand stutter, interrupted, and with a bit more pressure applied, it died completely._

She wasn't sure if she was doing it correctly, having never really found the opportunity to practice outside of the forgiving sessions with her father, but as Anders swam into sight, she saw the shock in his face overwritten with anger.

His hands attempted to draw down a spell, but it fizzled on the fingertips, resulting in nothing. It served to fuel his disgust with her. "That's a templar manoeuvre!" he snarled, snatching himself free with a yank. His eyes flared an otherworldly blue, stepping away from her.

Attempting to follow and calm him, she tried to pull herself up from the bed –  _her bed_ , she noted – but a hot pain shot through her body when her torso moved, and she fell back, letting out a groan.

"Anders..." she pleaded.

"Did you learn it to use on your sister if she ever got too powerful? To reign her in and control her?"

"No," she muttered, shifting on the bed, feeling the sting of an open wound. The movement must have upset whatever healing Anders had managed to perform, because a warm trickle of blood oozed down the side of her breast, nestling in the folds of her armpit. "Anders, I'm sorry, it's just..."

The glow of Justice filled the room, chest heaving as the distorted, deep voice rumbled in Anders's throat. " **No templar will touch me! You! You're one of them! All this time and he did not see!** "

"Anders!" She swung herself out of bed with a great effort, grimacing through the hurt as she laid her hand on his shoulder, fingers digging into the feather pauldrons. "Anders," she repeated, softer, but equally insistent. "It was a mistake."

His mouth twisted into a sneer, but he relented, the swirling energies dissolving into thin air. "Where did you pick that up?" Even as he helped her back onto the soft mattress, he was guarded, keeping away from her hands.

"My father was worried," she explained, laying down, heavy eyelids threatening to shut themselves firmly from the exerting movements. "His greatest fear was succumbing to temptation and becoming an abomination. Or that Bethany would. He taught me some tricks in case... Just in case..."

For a minute, he simply regarded her with cold eyes, conflicted on whether to believer her or not. "Fair enough." Anders pulled up a chair to the bedside and sat down, cautiously skimming his fingers over her wound, the tickling cool of magic floating across her skin: she braced herself for the strange sensation of healing to come, but it failed to materialise.

"Is it done?" she asked.

"If it'd gone deeper, you would have lost your arm," Anders stated, ignoring her question. "And with your little templar show-off – which, yes, was successful in draining me, thank you – I'll have to wrap this up the un-fun way." He shot her a dark look as he opened the small bag attached to his belt, lining up the tools on a white square of cloth placed by her knee. "Don't do that again, by the way."

"It's not often Justice gets to come out and play."

He snorted derisively. "He's always here. There are moments, though... Moments when he's stronger, and I can't control him." His voice shifted into a gentler, sadder tone. "It could have ended differently hadn't you been so lucky."

"Do you still think about that girl?"

Anders hadn't spoken much of the event in the caves under the Gallows, where the fury of Justice (or  _Vengeance_ , as he sometimes called it – called himself,  _the horrific merger of spirit and man to create a walking nightmare when fully unleashed_ ) had proven impossible to reign in upon the provocation of the templars, and he'd lashed out at the innocent mage. She'd been scared even as Justice tore life from her body, her eyes frozen in an eternal state of fear as she died.

"Her name was Ella," Anders said as he threaded the needle. "I went to her funeral."

She deduced things from details overheard, despite the two of them not having spoken much of it. That Aveline refused to help him make amends to the family – and that Varric  _did_  provide the information he requested. That he found out through friends she had in the Circle her favourite plant was ivy – which Hawke found ironic, considering it grew all over their barred windows, decorating their gilded cage, but to each their own – and that he made sure it grew in abundance at her burial site.

She hadn't known he actually went to the funeral itself. For all the victims, innocent or not, that had died by her hand, she had never felt overwhelmed enough to go to their funerals, or visit their graves. Starting down that path, she figured, was too dangerous. Led to regret, to guilt, to volatile feelings.

"Did it help?" Part of her envied him for having the mental strength to do it.

"No." Reaching over to unbuckle her belt, he struck a more conversational tone. "Tell me then: what did you do to receive this?"

"Nothing worth noting."

"Come now, Marian: entertain me a bit. Was it a Coterie assassin thwarted too late?" When she kept silent, he shrugged, but his eyes were glittering with amusement as he folded the belt and handed it to her. "A scorned Hightown lover carving you a memento with a pen knife? A magpie swooping down to peck at your shiny eyeballs?"

"I may have engaged the Arishok in sparring practice."

"With proper weapons?"

"Possibly."

"Bite down."

His warning was too late though, and she screamed right out as he poked through her skin. He stopped only long enough to nudge her with his elbow, and she bit down in the leather belt and fisted her hands in the sheets as he pushed the needle through flesh, stomach twisting as the thread moved. As it progressed, the skin pulling together, she let out a low whimper, breathing growing ragged, a faint ringing strumming up in her ears.

"If you faint, you at least won't feel it," Anders remarked, flickering his gaze over her face momentarily.

Her reply was muffled by the wet leather in her mouth, but she was too scared to remove it and risk cracking her teeth – they were already digging deep indentations into the belt. The pain kept pressing, welling up inside her, drowning out everything else until it was just that: the sharp hardness of the pain, cutting away at her, unyielding and furious, hot and cold, and as much as she hated it, there was a delicious edge to it that she could not deny – it felt like she achieved a perfect sense of purity – and then it ebbed away.

Anders eased the belt out of her mouth through prying her aching jaw open. As her breathing returned to normal and he began putting away his tools, she twisted to catch a glimpse of the wound. The dark thread, pulling together bruise-stained and swollen flesh, stood out, the pulled-together edges rising like a bumped, jagged ridge over her collarbone and and down her chest, forming a mildly distorted cross-shape.

"Gruesome," she muttered, smiling.

His brow furrowed before it clicked for him, and he groaned. "It's about the scar, isn't it?"

"I..." Truth of the matter was that she was extraordinarily content with suffering through the long healing process, if only because it would provide her with an ever-lasting memory of the sparring match. Of the Arishok. The mere thought of it sent a flutter through her stomach.

"It's always about the scar tissue with ex-soldiers. Always. Tell me, does it actually help you to pick up men?"

"Depends on the man."

"As you say." He was wiping off his instruments best he could with the rudimentary supplies he had with him. "Just don't show it to Leandra, I doubt she'll be happy with my handiwork – I had to assure her you'd be fine before she even let me see you."

"I told her it wasn't that bad."

"You could have died."

"Theoretically."

"Technically."

She licked her lips, feeling the last energy drain out of her. "Thank you."

Anders nodded, packing up his equipment in silence: she watched his tense movements, eyelids clipping before shutting completely and sleep claimed her, too exhausted to even dream.

* * *

Turns out, nearly having her arm dismembered did wonders to Hawke's social life. Her body had taken a beating far worse than initially assessed: the day after she awoke unable to move, torso splattered with bruises and swollen bumps on the back and front of her head. Every muscle was stiff, and it required a devoted effort to even get into a seated position, and much to her shame she had to rely on aid to dress and wash, the slowly recovering tissue alternating between various levels of dull ache and blazing pain.

Anders came by and eased her discomfort best he could without poking back into the main wound: he healed her smaller contusions and scrapes, but said that re-opening such a grievous injury could do more damage than good, and he let it be.

Being at home was frustrating. Varric, who possessed an innate ability of just knowing, had spread the word of her bravery – details wildly exaggerated, of course – and she was beset by the band of misfits, all coming to check up on her. Varric had smoothly suggested that she stay inside, as there were eyes trained on her, hoping to find a moment to strike. Wandering around town partially incapacitated was highly discouraged.

Aveline came first of all, eyes stern but lips twitching into a smile, bringing with her a bottle of fine imported liquor that they drank together in the study. As a flush rose on Aveline's cheeks, she'd rolled up her pants and shown the scars marring her shins, talking about the darkspawn that, even with legs cut off, had clawed and tried to gnaw at her. When the evening wore on their conversation drifted to Ostagar, until they both sat there quiet, deep in thought, drinking until the bottle was empty and the roaring fire turned to smouldering embers.

"Let's not do that again anytime soon," Aveline made her promise when she left in the hours during which the sun was nearly grazing the sky. "The drink was nice, don't question that, but doubts? Doubts I can go without."

Hawke had agreed.

Merrill came alone in the morning, offering a basket of baked Dalish treats that crumbled on the tongue, soft and warm, spicy yet sweet. She looked at the cut with wide-eyed admiration, completely entranced by Hawke's retelling of the bout. When she left, she had eaten all the cookies herself, and apologised profusely for being such a terrible visitor, promising a new batch would be brought for the next time.

Sebastian prayed for her to recover swiftly, the litany of soft-spoken words making her squirm as she kept silent. He also had his gift delivered after he left: a suit of armour, custom-made and perfectly fitted. How he got her measurements without asking was beyond her, though she was not one to look a gifted horse in the mouth. It was a good gift. Better than scarves or necklaces. When she had attempted to try it on, a stitch nearly burst open, and her mother wrested the metal out of Marian's hands.

Fenris came over with a bottle of wine salvaged from his former master's cellar, and instead got roped into dinner by Leandra, who was ever the doting mother, wondering if he was feeding himself well enough in the run-down mansion. It had been an awkward affair, Fenris drinking too much wine and Hawke not enough, and Leandra equal parts over-protective mother and matchmaker. Thankfully, Fenris was too engrossed in enjoying the meal to pick up on the demure hints, and Marian was more than relieved when he left that night.

Varric came only when Leandra was out, slipping in through the kitchen door, helping himself to an apple while somehow managing to talk Hawke's ear off even when he was eating. The only time Varric went quiet was when a mention of Bethany drifted into the conversation, and he'd quickly usher them onto a new topic. He never stayed long enough to meet Leandra, leaving the same way he entered. Hawke couldn't blame him – though Leandra had never said it outright, she still harboured a complex duet of sorrow and resentment towards both Hawke and Varric for what happened to Bethany during the Deep Roads expedition. Hawke accepted the ire and it was cooling off in its intensity, but Varric, ever the avoider and procrastinator, simply evaded all confrontation on the matter.

Isabela sent a note that simply read:  _Silly thing, get better_. Hawke penned a reply:  _Silly pirate, stop trying to put drinks on my tab_.

* * *

At first, Hawke read. There was an entire shelf of a bookcase put away for her where she lined up all her to-read books, but there they remained, adventures undone, romances unloved, sonnets unsung. The wound, while healing well enough, came with a dull thud of ache that coursed through her veins when she sat still for too long, rendering her unable to fully absorb the texts passing in front of her eyes.

That, and there were other things on her mind, unpurged and haunting her.

Journal-keeping had been Hawke's way of expressing that which her lips dared not utter, but after she heard Varric incorporating some of her noted conquests into his tavern tales, she had gotten vaguer in her writing, fully aware that there was at least another reader – Isabela had, lacking the finer subtlety of her dwarven partner in crime, doodled stick figures in the margins, all re-enacting the act in various positions (some of which Hawke doubted were even physically possible).

Not that she knew how to put pen to paper and scribble  _let the Arishok nearly impale me today, but not in the right place_.

She was running out of outlets to vent her frustrated thoughts, and the staggering movements and hindered movements deprived her of the outside. Being caught inside the mansion was grating on her, and with nothing to distract her...

Maybe she should have written  _would let the Arishok impale me whichever wrong way as long as I didn't have to go through this tedium_.

There was no work to do, either – all job offers had to be put on hold or declined, so all she did between visitors was pen notes while working through her backlog of received messages. Which was what she found herself doing, third night in a row, sitting in the study by the desk while her mother read in the armchair by the fireplace.

Most of it was kind letters of gratitude, some of annoyance at her brashness, some thinly veiled threats at her involvement in the Qunari situation – common and uninteresting. What did catch her attention was the messily scribbled note, sealed with red wax, found near the bottom of the inbox.

 _Hawke,_

 _I looked into the matter you asked me about. There are no quick solutions – if any – to your problem. Most Tevinter records speak of blood magic and live sacrifices, and correct me if I'm wrong (actually don't, I'd rather not have my idea of you any worse than it already is) but even you wouldn't go that far._

 _I'll keep my eyes open, so don't make a deal with a demon over it. Kirkwall has enough abominations as it is._

– _A._

It must have one, two years since she brought the matter up with Anders. She'd not given it much thought herself, just a passing mention during an examination he performed of her.

She respected him, and as such told him everything he asked about concerning her physical status, because he was a caretaker of her body, her most vital tool, and he could undo all damage she took. As much as they clashed at times, she valued him because he had the ability to mend any and all of her pride-sustained injuries, or stupidity-induced fractures, or the best: alcohol-fuelled dislocations. The hours she spent getting patched up in his clinic were too numerous to count, to the point where he warned her to stop stealing healing from people who actually needed it.

In the armchair, Leandra shut her book with an audible thud and sighed. "I think I'll retire for the night. How's the wound?"

"Getting better," Marian replied, absently brushing a hand over it – it stung less than just a day ago, and she was getting better, feeling less stiff and restrained in her own body, the discord caused by the injury mending, flesh slowly re-aligning itself with her mental state.

A choked sob escaped from Leandra, catching Marian unguarded. "When you came through the door, bleeding and slurring, I thought I was going to lose you. That moment itself nearly broke my heart."

"Please..." Marian couldn't help but be affected by her mother's concern, feeling a strange thickness welling up in her throat.

"I wish I could convince you to cease taking risks that end with this result... Or worse..." Leandra rose from her seat and came to stand behind Marian, hugging her daughter gingerly, chest quaking with tearless sobs.

"Mother, please." Voice harder, harsher.

"Marian, I fret each time you leave the house these days." Leandra put her hands over Marian's – both of them trembling slightly. "I ask myself, what if today is the day she cannot be saved? What if today is the day she..."

Marian balled her covered hand into a fist, using the other to remove her mother's touch.

"Seneschal Bran has a son your age, you know. And even if he's a complete bore, there are others, always others."

"No."

"At least consider it. For me. It'd put my heart at ease."

"Mother." Marian's voice was cold as she half-turned in the chair, looking up at her mother. "Don't. Honestly, don't."

Leandra sighed, her eyes wet and shimmering, tears on the brink of spilling out. "I know, but you can't fault me for trying." She tipped down and planted a soft kiss on Marian's forehead. "Good night, darling."

Leandra was gone before Marian found herself calm enough to reply. "Sweet dreams, mother," she spoke softly into the emptiness.

Marian fully understood why her mother was pushing so hard for marriage. The idea of it, particularly a noble martial union, in a city such as Kirkwall, was safe, and ensured living on for the foreseeable future. It was just a way of living that had never held any appeal to Marian.

Even the suggestion of Fenris – as good as he could be to her – did nothing for her. The idea of marriage itself posed a threat to her preferred way of living: unfettered, free to choose for herself. Free to be herself, free of the pressure to procreate and manage a household and nurture some maternal instinct that was meant to manifest itself around her age. She was meant to coo over the children she came across – but they just made her feel peculiar. Like being slapped in the face with a reminder of what she should be, rather than what she was.

Flicking the note open, she drummed her fingers against the desk before reaching for a new sheet of paper. Dipping the quill into the inkwell, she began penning a reply.

 _Anders,_

 _I appreciate all you've done for me._

 _No, I don't intend to go to such lengths to fix this issue – I just wanted to know if there were options. Thank you for letting me know that there were none viable._

 _Regards,_

 _Hawke._

Folding and putting it in an envelope, she scrawled his name across before putting it on top of the outgoing correspondence pile.


	6. Come A Little Closer

"So this is the Fade," Isabela commented while Hawke heaved once more, emptying her stomach out on the floor. "I always pictured it with more... Oceans. And bars. Floating bars on vast oceans, made of whiskey! Oh, that would be something!"

"The Fade isn't for you to shape," Justice remarked, the deep voice rumbling threateningly.

Isabela rolled her eyes. "You're still an absolute stick in the mud."

Hawke retched, then took a deep breath, hands on her knees. At least her vomit didn't smell, which, considering the sickly green bile colour and the bitter taste that lingered in her mouth, was something of a gift. It was usually smells that triggered strong reactions of her gut – her sensitive olfactory glands merely needed a whiff of vileness and her stomach would clench and begin twisting to empty itself out.

However, this time, it wasn't smell that was triggering her body's violent reaction: it seemed to be the Fade itself. To walk in someone else's – Feynriel's – dreams, it was a violation, abhorrent: the surroundings were hazy and every sensation was off by a tiny degree, just enough to throw off her sense of balance.

Merrill suffered none of that, however, peeking around to sate her curiosity, opening doors down the long corridor and disappearing into rooms, calling out to the rest about her findings – which was nothing. "I think we have to go deeper to find Feynriel," she said from the other end of the corridor, voice as clear as if she was standing right there with them. "But you ought to see these places, they're so peculiar! Like unfinished dreams neatly tucked away, waiting to be touched."

It was Merrill. Merrill, who had set out from the alienage in the morning hours to visit Hawke, and been beset by a distraught Arianni who had pleaded for help in regards to her son. Apparently, three years was enough time for Feynriel to land himself in trouble again.

Hawke had been going out of her mind with boredom over the week of recovery, and while her wound was healing well enough, she was still greatly restricted. Even the simple act of washing and dressing required someone else's aid, and it was frustrating for her to become dependant to that degree. She had been itching to get out, to do something, anything – and Merrill coming with an offer (and bedraggled Isabela sobering up at her heels) had sprung Hawke into action.

A different kind of action than she was used to, though. The Fade wasn't her domain.

Touching a hand to the shoulder, there was no bumpy scar tissue, just the smooth unmarred skin. It was as Marethari had said, she would be able to do whatever was required of her in the Fade, even if in the waking world she was an awkward mess of stitches and scrapes.

Isabela patted Hawke on the back. "Stomach settled yet?"

"Why aren't you sick?" Hawke asked, rising to stand on unsteady feet. Her stomach gave one final discontent rumble, then stilled.

"This place feels like the waves rolling underneath the hull, my ship shuddering from the caress of the ocean. It's divine." Isabela let out a content sigh. "If only Kirkwall truly felt like this, I could consider staying a bit..."

"We are not lingering here long." Justice just seemed uncomfortable, the blue glow radiating through Anders's diffused form shining bright like a beacon. The spirit was on edge, both at home and not, snapping his head around and tapping the staff irritatedly against the ground yet producing no sound.

"Relax," Isabela sighed. "Enjoy it for what it is."

"Vigilance serves mortals better in the treacherous realms constructed by dreaming mages."

"I'd pay to see what filthy things Anders would dream up," Isabela mused.

"I protect him in the Fade," Justice rumbled.

"More like suppress him."

Hawke, feeling in her throat the initial treacherous muscle movement of expulsion, swallowed harshly and took both of them by the collar, pulling them along down the corridor to explore the fantasy world they'd been dropped in.

* * *

The persuasive power of demons, particularly in the Fade, could not be denied.

Merrill had given in when the pride demon appealed to her yearning for the power with which she could protect not only her own clan, but the entirety of the Dalish. To bring safety and unquestionable protection and glory to the ones of your blood – your family – those who were of you... Hawke couldn't deny the sting of jealousy that Merrill was offered it, nor could she skim over that she let Isabela strike down Merrill because she couldn't do it herself.

Of course, that came back to bite her in the ass too.

Isabela fell under the sway of the desire demon, who tempted her away from Hawke's side with the promise of a fully crewed ship – as they fought, Hawke even glimpsed the glorious vessel, the sails flying high and the hull lashed by salt water, the tar smell still fresh as the sweaty muscles of the sailors worked to get her out of dock and onto the open sea. The freedom to go wherever her heart pleased, the joy to struggle against the waves, the delicious torture of fighting the elements to find her way.

Fighting companions reminded her too much of being caught in a nightmare – one that came, now and again, re-visiting her on the calmest nights to put doubt and worry to gnaw at her trust. As much as it was the promise of a dream fulfilled shattering for Merrill and Isabela, it was the realization of a nightmare for Hawke.

Once Isabela had been dispatched of, the desire demon retreated to the corner of the ivory-white room, it's strange gaze locked on Hawke as the warrior closed in to deal the killing blow.

"Come now," the demon said in a cooing tone, slender fingers dragging across the pale skin. "I'm sure we can reach an understanding, mutually beneficial to us..."

"Do not listen to it!" Justice boomed from behind her.

"I had no intention to," Hawke responded, raising her sword to prepare the final blow.

"If you will not listen," the demon said, mischievous smile, "then perhaps there are other ways to get to the heart of the matter..."

The demon shifted, shape transforming in front of Hawke's eyes: the horns thickened, the form growing muscles and broadening, the skin the same pale white and the eyes dark as night, entrancing like the heart of a dancing fire. Her breath caught in her throat.

"You yearn for this." It didn't sound like the Arishok – the voice pitch was off by an octave, uttered as a sinister incantation, tugging at her core and drawing out unwanted effects from her body.

Hawke couldn't resist, taking one cautious step forward to where the Arishok rested half-reclined on the floor. Arishok smiled up at her, a grin that revealed his sharp teeth, and raised an inviting hand to her, beckoning, offering to take her on top of him. Her sword dropped to the ground silently, the muscles in her hands suddenly too weak to hold on.

"How many nights have you squandered away, thinking of this moment? Dreaming of the day when you are the conqueror, the victorious delirium of flesh yours to claim?"

The words weren't what the Arishok would speak to her, but the voice was settling in at the correct place, clear and  _right_. Oh so right. The same voice that lectured her with obscure idioms taken from his elusive Qun; the same calm, admonishing tone he employed when beating her to a bloody pulp; but the effects it had upon her were beyond anything he had elicited before. Her knees felt weak, a flutter in her stomach, a raw and furious lust that blossomed, spreading and burning her entire self until she felt engulfed in flames.

"It's all here for you, ripe for the picking. Take it."

She couldn't take her eyes off him, either. That hand, large enough to crush a skull in, entreating her to come to him: the distinct bulge between his legs that seemed unnatural and yet exactly what she wanted.

It was wrong and he was right.

With one agonizingly slow blink of her eyelids, she caught a glimpse – just a fraction of no time at all that passed, and yet the tiny grain contained suggestion enough to make her let out a low whimper. His sweaty body embracing hers, his warm lips grazing across the wound he had inflicted upon her, whispering words of in the Qunari tongue against the curve of her ear, tip of tongue against soft earlobe. Weapons discarded at their feet, soon followed by blood-spattered armour, linens and pliable leather.

She blinked again, taken aback, and she could hear his strained breathing as she lifted her hips up over his, lowering herself down with a cruel smile. She felt his fingers digging into her hips, his turgid member filling her, their muscles taut with restraint, trembling with lust to let go.

"Yes," he rumbled on the floor, equally a threatening growl and a spur to bring her closer. His hand grasped hers firmly, tugging her down, his self-satisfied grin widening.

Wrong, it was wrong: her pulse was thundering in her ears, heart racing, and she wished for the moment to last just a bit longer, for her to be able to savour it for just another heartbeat...

All that she needed to do was to close her eyes and utter the acceptance, the yes: take the demon into herself and the Arishok would be there. In the flesh. Forever.

Yet it wouldn't be real.

 _It could be real_.

Hawke blinked once more, slowly, as she straddled his hips, his clothed member pressing against her clothed thigh, leaning forward. She was trembling, almost shaking, the clashing sensations (behind her closed eyes his musky scent, reminiscent of their sparring match – underneath her, his warm body moving, cupping her bottom to pull her closer) dizzying in their intensity.

It wasn't reality, but it was a good imitation. Leaning in, she was too short to reach his lips, instead burying her nose in the crook of his neck. It was warm, faintly sweaty... But there was no scent there.

She was tempted to close her eyes, to have her senses flooded with him, but the clarity rendered her unable to do so. On pure instinct, her hand reached for the blade kept in her waist sash – briefly wondering if it would even be there, though Merrill had assured her all her weapons and armour would be there if she didn't think it otherwise. At first, haunted by the idea that she might find nothing but a white bunny there, it felt like her fingers were closing around a fuzzy rabbit ear, but then the sensation gives way to the firmness of the hilt.

Sliding the other hand over the chest of the phantasm, she bit into her lip and with a lightning-fast movement, she sunk the dagger through his chest, his surprised and hurt expression lasting only a fraction of a second yet etching itself into her memory, and even as it passed she knew she would not forget that horrific sight of betrayal. The demon's visage returned, twitching beneath Hawke a final time before dissolving into nothing.

She sat on the floor on her knees, letting out a trembling sigh of frustration, sadness and... She didn't know what reaction was appropriate. With each breath, her chest constricted harder, but everything was clearer than before.

It was just an illusion, just a demon. It meant nothing at all.

"You nearly gave in," Justice commented from behind her.

"No," Hawke said with a shake of her head. "I knew, all along. It wasn't – it wasn't what I desired."

"It was," the spirit insisted. "Demons are tricksters, preying upon your weaknesses, plucking the strings that can sway you to abandon all your principles and morals. I have witnessed many succumbing."

She didn't respond, merely running her hands over her face.

"I misjudged you."

"Come again?"

"I assumed the demon would tempt you with something else. Anders's knowledge of you suggested that there are other things you would desire more than... That."

"Then you don't know me as well you'd like to think, do you?"

"Evidently."

"Anders can't know what happened here."

"Anders and I are the same: there is little we keep apart."

"But then there are some things, correct? And this better be one of them."

She got up from the floor, grabbing her weapon as she did. Blue tendrils of energy were flowing out from Justice, through the cracks in Anders's skin, swaying as he regarded Hawke.

"You use Anders as if he was a tool to you," he eventually stated angrily.

"Yes," Hawke admitted. "And so do you."

"I do not! He is a willing physical host – you! You sap him of magic, time, distract him from his purposes, muddle his convictions..."

"You use him as a flesh conduit to mete out black and white judgements in a grey world and let him take the consequences." She spat on the ground. "Enough. I don't have anything more to say to you."

"Likewise."

* * *

"You!" Feynriel exclaimed as he saw her descend the stairs into the Gallows courtyard of his dreams, his voice bouncing off the marble walls. "Hawke, come back to mess up my life!"

She told herself she didn't feel guilty for sending him to the tower – in her mind, either path seemed dubious to help with his dreams, whatever his dreams were, back then before she knew – but with the tower, at least there was a lack of sentimentality and enough power to cut him down if need be.

In theory, at least.

Unfortunately, the theories she worked out rarely came to be applicable to Kirkwall events.

Hawke wasn't doing it for Arianni – mother on the edge of a complete nervous breakdown, fretting over the power their child – their only, darling, precious child – wielded.

Not that she could deny the power concerned mothers had over her, but she thought herself able to overcome it should the need arise. Especially if Feynriel showed the signs... The need to be reigned in, lest his untamed powers be let loose. His strange powers that eluded even the full comprehension of the Dalish, it seemed.

Yet she stood in front of Feynriel, flicking the blade in her hand, waiting for him to think. For him to decide. He'd asked her to make him Tranquil first – desperate, terrified of his own power and what they drew in – and she had simply told him to give it a minute and some serious thought.

Tranquils gave her the chills. The empty stare, the disaffected voice, and the unquestioning acceptance of having relinquished all they were to become empty husks.

The first time she had seen a Tranquil had been outside the Lothering Chantry. An assistant to the Reverend Mother with icy silver eyes and unnaturally white hair for such youthful features. He was dreadfully perceptive, to the point where he got himself killed by an unfaithful husband – and Lothering had let out a collective sigh of relief, part glad to be rid of the man who seemed to lack anything remotely human in himself, and part because the dirty dealings could once again resume without hindrance.

"Any further insight into your future?" she asked, balancing the knife on the tip of her finger. With a twitch it landed on its pointed edge, barely pressing into the pad of her index finger, the skin dented but unbroken.

"Tevinter," Feynriel said, hesitantly, but then instantly perking up. "The Imperium! Surely there must be someone there knows!"

She wasn't sentimental. She wasn't one to be influenced by things.

Just that she really loathed Tranquils.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Feynriel said firmly, then smiled, a bittersweet smile, and then the Gallows around them began to crack, pieces disintegrating as he ripped open a portal to exit through.

"Good luck, Feynriel, and take care." The process of waking was beginning, pulling her out of the Fade.

"Say goodbye to my mother from me."

* * *

Isabela and Merrill sat by the kitchen table with Arianni, both of them cradling small, delicate teacups in their hands. Their hunched postures and regretful expressions did more than enough convey the guilt they felt. Arianni herself had a cup of tea in front of her, untouched, hands fidgeting with a cloth napkin as she tore at the edges of it, unravelling it thread by thread.

"Hawke, I'm so sorry," Merrill blurted out, but Hawke merely raised a hand to silence the apostate.

"Your son is safe," Hawke said, addressing Arianni.

The elf's lower lip trembled, small tears trickling out of her eyes. "Oh, thank you..."

"But he's going to the Imperium to learn how to master his talents. He wanted... Asked me to let you know."

Arianni burst out in a sob, letting out a pained wail of Dalish words as Marethari put her arms around the quaking shoulders of the mother.

Hawke wasn't a comforter, and she had done what Feynriel asked. Nodding to Marethari, she stepped outside of the small shack and into the alienage twilight.

The smells hit against her, of spices and dust, of filth and misery, then the intensity of it faded within a few breaths as she began navigating her way past the dingy Lowtown buildings crumbling under their own weight to the white stairs that ran from the docks to the Viscount's keep, zig-zagging up the steep cliffs and acting as the main path to move between the various levels and neighbourhoods of Kirkwall.

All the while, she went over the events of the Fade – or rather, one event. The event.

A blush crept up her face as she thought of it, the memory of a pleasure inexperienced evoking reactions all too strong in her.

Part of Hawke felt that what happened in the Fade had actually occurred. Objectively, she knew the Arishok – the Arishok who sat in the docks, watching and judging and waiting for  _something_  that lingered on the horizon – hadn't been involved.

It was the incoming summer, she decided – the heat was nearly too much even as the moon rose, the heat playing tricks with her self-control. She craved a cold bath to drench the burning sensations rampaging through her.

Still, her own dreams, the fantasies emerging from herself, had never gone to the lengths as she had experienced from the demon. Her body was betraying her as well: the emptiness in her sex, the strained awkwardness of moving, hips aching; all the typical signs of having been roughly and thoroughly fucked.

She needed... Her thoughts trailed off, uncertain, thrown off by the conflicting desires. She needed to clear her head of it all, purge it from her system completely. An escape from the city would serve her well.


	7. Drink the Fatal Drop

Above, the brightly blue sky spread out like an endless canopy, small wisps of clouds stretched thin and torn, leaving the sun unhindered to spread near-unbearable warmth over Kirkwall and the surrounding areas.

A scribbled note on a messily hand-drawn map had served to guide her to the spot: a scattering of islets formed a barrier from the ocean winds in the curve of the coastline, leaving a place where a few trees grew, less whipped by the cruel seas and winds, and an inlet where the calm water lapped at smooth rocks that sunk out of view when the tide was high.

It was remote, secluded, and it was perfect.

Hawke did not stray far from the winding path, finding a gnarled and twisted tree bent over a large, flat rock, a patchy stretch of green grass laid out in a circle around it. A neat little scene, where she put her sword and pack against the rock and sunk down to sit cross-legged on the ground. The dog sniffed his way around the immediate area, then, with a satisfied huff, set off to run up and down the path, not going out of her vision of sight. He looked absolutely ridiculous, tongue lolling out on the side and stumpy tail wagging so hard his entire body was shaking.

It was exactly what she needed: a secluded place, a bag of water and light snacks to keep her through the day, and a book as all the company she could need. Dog came along at his own insistence, though she did not mind – while she could hold a weapon relatively well, she still felt a certain stiffness in her shoulder when she moved too fast – Dog got to run around freely, and she got some slobbering, hairy protection.

She fished out the book she had brought with her, cracking the spine and cutting the pages as she went along, drifting into the finely crafted world, where things were clear, all discussions between characters chaste and honest, wars were waged with philosophical words rather than swords and muscles – all the perfect antidote. Clarity over obscurity.

After a few hours and a few hundred pages, Dog gave out a low, threatening grumble.

"Here boy," she called, and he bounced to stand next to her as she put the book down on the rock and reached for her weapon, unsheathing it.

The Wounded Coast had a tendency to attract the strangest things, and she was well aware of it – she had just hoped it would not come across her.

A Qunari appeared on the path, bow clutched in hands with an arrow ready to be fired, aimed at her. Dog growled, leading her to tug at his collar – he wasn't Tal-Vashoth, as far as she could tell.

"You're a long way from the docks, Qunari," she said, sheathing her sword.

"Basalit-an Hawke," he greeted, finally lowering the dark bow, putting the arrow back in its quiver.

She relaxed, letting go of Dog, who curled up at her feet with a tired huff, and leaned herself back against the rock, arms crossed. "Have we met?"

"No," he said, his mouth twitching a bit, almost as if he was amused. "But I have heard – and seen – of you. I am Ashaad."

"I can't tell, but I'm sure I didn't meet you in the sparring ring."

"If I had been so lucky," he said, eyeing her up and down, apparently re-assessing her. "You look smaller without your armour."

"That's an... Odd compliment."

"It is not intended to be so. I was stating a factual perception."

"Perception varies by the individual viewing," she quipped.

"Your size is decreased without armour. It is not a point to discuss." He tilted his head, eyes resting on where her loose shirt exposed her injured shoulder, the red scar tissue still a stark contrast against her pale skin. "The mercy you bestowed upon us was unnecessary, as the Arishok taught you."

She flexed her shoulder. "The Arishok nearly took my arm off."

"It is still attached."

"Took a bit of work."

Their conversation fizzled out, both of them simply staring at the other in a silence that was making her uncomfortable and didn't even faze him. It was a Qunari trait she found highly unnerving at times, though she acknowledged how it was one which eventually worked in their favour. A subtle way of instilling a creeping sensation of fear in their enemy: faced with a front of unmoving faces, they – and by extension, Hawke too – were only able to guess at what they were thinking.

Shaking off the feeling, she noted that her mouth had gone as dry as a parchment, and reached into her pack to retrieve the water she kept in there. Unscrewing the lid, she paused before the bottle made contact with her lips, thinking better of her poor manners.

"Thirsty?"

"Yes."

She offered him her flask. "Have some water." Seeing Ashaad hesitate, she added: "I promise, it's not poisoned."

He took it and took three deep gulps, then passed it back to her, but froze mid-motion. His eyes narrowed at something further down the path, and she turned to look at it. In the distance, there was a crack of light, followed by a rising arc of blue lightning. It seemed to be coming from one of the small islets, but whoever or whatever was causing it was obscured by cliffs.

"That what you're scouting for?"

"Yes."

Another arc of light shot up, this one dark red. Immediately, Ashaad pressed the flask into her hands, then turned and began briskly moving up the path, leaving her alone.

She watched the peculiar lights for a while, but as they died down she noticed where the sun was in the sky and with a sigh realised it was about time to leave for Kirkwall.

When she returned home, there was a stack of new letters on her desk – along with a basket of lukewarm pastries sent by Merrill in her ongoing quest to apologise to Hawke. Tasting one of the sugar-powdered fluffy creations, she eyed through the short notes, ending up lingering on one sent by Sebastian.

 _Dear Marian,_

 _I cannot confront Mother Petrice regarding the incident. So far she has successfully eluded all my attempts; she is a clever one. I do not like the idea of this, especially as she is a fellow here in the Chantry, but: be wary of her._

 _Maker watch over you._

 _Sebastian_

There was no other correspondence of note, and she threw his note on the fire, feeling no inclination to reply to it. Damn it all – she wanted to be done with it.

* * *

The next day she set out a bit later in the morning, the sun nearly high enough to be uncomfortable as she made the trek plotted out the day before, her walk determined, zoned in on that spot that she had thought of all night. It was her little refuge against what tried to haunt her, a place far removed from the viscount, the Qunari, all of Kirkwall.

She had been to see the viscount before departing, wearing the shirt that hung off one shoulder to exposing it – partially practical, since the seams of the rest of her wardrobe had a horrible tendency to chafe against the sensitive skin still mending there; and partially unashamedly flaunting to him what she put herself through. All that she did at his bidding, at his insistence that it was furthering a goal which was muddled: peace-keeping was a hazardous business at best, and endless at worst. If the Qunari were not to leave, then her employment would last for far too long. As it was, she was already trying to come up with valid reasons to resign from the mission.

The problem was, of course, that she had a sense of duty. A horrible, unforgiving, unrelenting sense of it, which shot down all her attempts to put into word how wrong it felt.  _I don't actually care enough about this, viscount_ , simply didn't suffice: neither did _I want to feel the Arishok between my thighs until I can feel nothing else_  – the latter most inappropriate.

So duty prevailed – the blasted, damned, proud sense of duty – and she stayed her tongue, nodding politely at Dumar, scratching Dog behind his ear as he huffed by her knee. Kirkwall most certainly didn't understand mabari dogs – nor most Ferelden influences that were permeating the city as the refugees still remained – but Dumar allowed her the freedom of taking her hound even into his office, if only because he was trying to get on her good side.

It had been pleasant to get out of the stifled room when he dismissed her, the air heavy and the entire Keep suffocating. In fact, all of Kirkwall seemed to be slowing down as the pre-summer heat came in full-force, no breezes making it into the city, no rain on the horizon, and the sun shining relentlessly. As soon as she made it out of the city, she'd pushed all the political bull to the back of her mind, stuffing it out of the way, and simply enjoyed the walk along the shoreline.

However, when they reached her secluded spot, she had to pull at Dog's collar to keep him from jumping at the Qunari gathered around the rock – but his bark alerted them, all turning to look at her. Six of them, weapons gleaming with fresh blood, one of them clutching a cut-off horn in his hand – another caught in the middle of wrapping gauze over a wound on his arm.

And the Arishok was among them.

"Hawke," he greeted with a bow of his head.

 _Was there no escape from him, from how he had an entire city sitting at the edge of an abyss? How he had her clinging on the edge, loosening a finger at a time, the seemingly inevitable fall drawing ever closer_... She swallowed, forcing a smile as she approached.

"Surprised to see you out here," she said, taking in the splattering of blood on his clothing, furrowing her brow. From what she could see, he had no wounds on him – the blood must be entirely of others. The thought of him in battle was... Enticing and terrifying. She didn't believe she had seen even a fraction of what he was capable of when they had sparred, convinced that he must have held back.

He gave an order to the other Qunari, who shouldered their weapons and moved on.

"You have not come by the compound for quite some time," Arishok noted as she jumped up on the rock, sitting cross-legged with hands folded in her lap.

"Miss me?"

"I find you less of a headache to deal with than the cowering bureaucrats he sends: they do not have the fortitude to provide actual amusement."

"Don't tell me that they've been forced to spar."

"Regretfully no. Though one almost lost his head when he tripped over himself in fear at the suggestion." Dog picked that moment to jump up on the Arishok, licking at the blood on his arm, as was a mabari habit.

The Arishok studied the dog, nostrils flaring. "Your creature has a distinct... Smell."

"It's a mabari," she explained. "War hounds of Ferelden. Meant to be intelligent, but... I have my doubts," she added, seeing the beast roll over in excitement, whining for a scratch on his belly.

"There's no wars to be fought here." He bent down, giving an awkward pat that satisfied the dog, who promptly got up and set off to chase after something he had caught whiff off. "Your misplaced beast grows restless from it."

"Don't we all." There was still blood on him, red and drying, darker than the paint that covered his chest. "If I asked, would you explain why there's blood all over you?"

"No."

She ventured a guess. "Because it's related to the reason you stay in Kirkwall?"

"Yes."

"Ah."

They fell silent, and she shifted, noting that the height of the rock put her face at level with his: he was leaning against the rock ever so slightly, and the tip of her soft-soled shoe brushed against the hard muscles of his stomach.

For once, he seemed less frustrated, as if whatever fight he had been engaged in had allowed for him to vent some of it out.

"It is refreshing to escape Kirkwall, however short a time-span. I take it that is why you come here."

"Just trying to clear my head." She smiled, but internally, she could already feel the stirring conflict. In his presence, it grew stronger, the proximity intoxicating, her senses tripping over themselves to take all of him in, as much as possible, to imprint him into her for enjoying when she was on her own.

"Ever troubled, Hawke?"

She gnawed lightly on her lower lip, nodding. "So it would seem."

"Then the question is, is it a struggle which is worthwhile, or one which is not?"

"I haven't quite made my mind up on that, either."

"Must be a great one, if it drives you to seek solitude."

It was difficult to look at him. Each time she did, she felt tempted to close the distance between them, feel his heat against her like she had in the Fade –  _just a dream, just a dream_  – yet the tingling sensation between her legs as her mind came across the memories again told a different story.

"Wars, waged on the right scale, are what we find glory in."

"That's vague."

"And yet true. Either you are victorious, or you are not: in either outcome, glory is to be achieved. Anything less, and it was not worthwhile."

"Riddles." She let out a frustrated sigh, and the words just spilled out. "I want to do something which has no clear outcome, but I think the result won't... It's not clear, nothing is."

"Is it a question then?"

"What?"

"Every question demands an answer. It is the way of the Qun."

There was a singed smell in the air, and something deeper, musky. His scent. They had moved closer, somehow, without her noticing.

"There are things I desire that the Qun cannot give."

"Foolish desires, then."

She let out a short laugh. "If only I could tell myself that as easily. I wonder, Arishok, what would my place in the Qun be?"

"You would not convert," he stated bluntly. "There is a place for you in Kirkwall, in this... Pit of misery... And you thrive in it."

"Maybe I won't submit myself, but amuse me."

"I have no inclination to be a source of entertainment to your whims." His voice had gone cold, hard as steel, and he took a step back from her. It was only with him gone that she felt the cool chill envelop her.

"As always, I hope our next meeting will not be necessary." The Arishok's parting words wounded her.

"And yet, we come across each other all the time," she replied.

"Indeed."

* * *

The following day went without anyone coming by, the hound digging holes and chasing after rabbits and snakes, his joyous barks echoing against the cliffs as he put the fear of dog into all the wildlife. The book she had brought along gave no comfort, and she chucked it back into her pack and went down to the water.

She rolled up her pants to her knees and waded in, treading carefully over slippery stones and on soft sand that shifted, pulling her down. The cool water washed over legs, unexpectedly high waves drenching her to the waistline, but she didn't mind: struggling against the crashing masses of water tired and focused her, mind singularly set on conquering each wave. A silly distraction, but effective.

Hawke dried herself and her clothes in the sun on the walk back home, and fell asleep as soon as she laid her head down, smelling of salty water and seaweed, waking to sand in her sheets.

He did not come the day after that. By midday, thick clouds were gathering on the horizon, and she headed back to Kirkwall early, reaching the gates as the first raindrops evaporated before hitting the ground.

She arrived home to an antechamber full of fragrant flowers that made her head dizzy, Leandra smiling dreamily and then fussing as she ushered Marian to dry herself of the rain lest she catch a cold.

They ate dinner together, for the first time in months. Leandra was in an extremely cheerful mood, and it was contagious: Marian couldn't help but get swept up in it too, smiling, drinking a bit more than she normally would of the rich red wine, head swimming as she listened to Bodahn and Leandra chatting away about Hightown gossip. It was domestic, and harmless, and incredibly comforting to escape into. A sphere in which there were no Qunari, no politics, no wayward desires: just the household enjoying a night together as the rain drummed against the shingles.

* * *

Drawing lazy circles on the sun-warmed flat of her stomach, Hawke's consciousness tripped over the sentences, eyes snagging on descriptions of the simple act of lips meeting. The day was steeped in a pleasant warmth, not the oppressive heat that had ruled prior: the air was as pure as it only could be after a refreshing night of constant rain, so she couldn't blame it on that. Perhaps on the lingering heady wine that had stained her lips purple – or anything else – or just her own, depraved mind.

 _He descended upon her, his prey, his fallen primitive Goddess, his all and everything, and she spread herself for him wantonly, content sigh gracing her blood-red lips_. _They merged together into a wild beast, four-legged, four-armed, trashing about wildly as they each felt the divine twist them asunder, blood flowing from lip to lip, mouth to mouth, a sacrilegious communion of death and desire, and he moaned for forgiveness with tongue stuck into her cheek._

It was nothing at all, compared to some of the other filth rife in the pages, but there was a tantalizing heat building in her core each time she thought of the two lovers kissing, going from the abrupt confessional kiss, to the tentatively testing, and morphing into devouring ones, fuelled by unbridled passion. Behind closed eyes, she could easily replace them, replace the acts they were engaging in, with herself and the Arishok.

Hawke's fingers caught on the waistband of her trousers, and she bit into her lip, unable to deny that it set certain urges aflame. She generally didn't indulge in such ways. Mainly because she hadn't had anyone in a few months, and the pent-up frustrations served a better purpose of fuelling her combat prowess. On one hand, she liked it that way, the furious swirl a reminder of things to do, a gnawing hunger.

Only that now, she found herself disinclined to call upon any of the men she had become acquainted with for such purposes. Even the thought of them made for a poor replacement: shorter, eyes too gentle, muscles too kind, lacking the pale skin and particularly, those horns. Oh, how she yearned to hold on to those horns as he pressed himself against and into her...

Despite her best efforts in the previous days, she had been unable to completely rid herself of the images the desire demon had burnt into her mind, assailed by them at the worst of times – the fires of desire slowly burning away at her, creeping under her skin, wrapping her mind in a thick haze of ravenous lust.

It was getting bad. She was driving herself insane, nights spent thrown back into that slip of the Fade where he had seemed beyond real, re-living the moments in the way that dreams can extend a minute into hours. There was no rest in sleep, no peace in the waking.

Hawke re-focussed on the text, but her right hand got working on loosening the waist ties on her breeches and slipped the hand in. She ran her finger over the hem of her small clothes, following the smooth warm fabric over the curve of her sex, letting out a soft sigh as it brushed against the apex of her thigh.

Using her teeth, she flipped back a chapter, remembering that it held a particularly detailed scene, though she barely needed it to help her – slipping a finger between her nether lips, she felt the wetness already, and moved her finger in soft circles, closing in on the bundle of nerves. Barely had she brushed against it before she felt a shiver pass through her, letting the book fall flat against her chest, eyes closed and memories of the Fade assaulting her mind.

Just the images of him beneath her, behind her, slamming into her with force and fury... She bucked into her own hand, letting out a whimper.

And then it all came crashing down.

"Hawke." His voice was as neutral as ever, despite the scene he must be witnessing.

Her eyes flew open to see him there, in the flesh, staring down at her past her pulled-up knees.

Damn that dog, she thought. Once he trusted someone, he trusted them – and the Arishok had fallen into his good graces apparently, to the point where he hadn't even barked to alert her of his coming.

"You caught me at a bad moment," she said through gritted teeth, fixing her eyes on his shoulder as she tried to pull her hand out. Not that she could be discreet about it, even with thighs pressed together, it was just that the position left her knuckles catching on the folds in the fabric and she was unable to move the hand.

However, he didn't seem to pay notice to it, instead planting his hands on either side of her feet, one rough thumb circling her ankle slowly. "I thought about it, since you asked," he began, voice low, even threatening. "I consulted the Qun, attempting to find your place, even though that is not my role. I could not dismiss your question, as I have never been able to dismiss you."

Her stomach clenched in fear.

"The Qun has a place for you... But it would have to be an exception. All about you is an exception, a divergence from the rule. Why do you do this to me, Hawke? You raise more questions than you can answer, than I can." He seemed pained by the confession, the thumb pushing into her foot.

She had no idea what to say, or even if there was anything to offer as a reply to him.

"Is this what you seek to accomplish? Breaking rules, sowing doubts?" With a startling snarl, he hooked his hands behind her knees and pulled them apart and towards him, bringing their bodies flush together as he leaned over her. He looked furious, lip pulled up to reveal his sharp teeth, brow furrowed over dark eyes. "What are you doing to me?"

The hard muscle of his leg was pressing into her hand still caught in her pants, which itself was pressed against her most sensitive spot. As he shifted on his feet, the movement made her shudder and let out a moan, and she quickly bit into her lip and averted her face in shame.

It would take very little of him to turn her in a shuddering wreck, and she tried to move up and away from him to regain some posture, something, anything to stave it off. Yet when she did, he pulled her closer, holding on tight, leaving her squirming under the weight of him pinning her to the rock.

"I can smell it on you." His voice was working its magic on her. "Could smell it even as I approached... Even basalit-an are ruled by carnal desires."

She threw her head back and groaned. "Stop..."

"No." He ground against her again, one hand catching her chin. "Look at me."

Her breath hitched, from his accusatory tone and from the rising tide of pleasure within her, threatening to spill over into a mind-numbing flood ever so soon. His face hoovered mere inches above her, close enough to catch a whiff of his scent and yet too far to simply raise her head and press her lips to his. It was calculated to be so, she realised, catching the irritated expression on his face.

"This is all I will give you, Hawke." He punctuated the sentence with a movement that made her eyes flutter shut, but he yanked at her chin, forcing her to stay with him. "Look at me, and remember that this is all that will pass between us. It begins and ends here."

It was strange: his movements pushing her hand against herself, the nub tingling with each movement, sending electric currents throughout her body that grew tenser and tenser, muscles rigid as he grunted. They did not break eye contact once, her throat too thick to speak, him too... Too whatever he was to even form words. A quiet damnation of all that she was. Of what she drove him to do.

Yet, as he worked her ever closer to that point of no return, she let go, and pushed herself against him. His hand closed around her throat, pressing only lightly but still firm, and it was all she needed. "Arishok," she moaned.

At that moment, her knees pressed into his sides and hips rose off the rock, a savage cry escaping as she struggled through the flood of pleasure unleashed within to maintain eye contact with the Arishok. His disgust and anger was heart-wrenching to see, and the pangs of guilt hit her as the pleasure abated.

As she pulled her hand out of the small clothes, he caught her by the wrist, studying the slickness coating her fingers. Then he took the digits into his mouth, sucking roughly, tongue laving against the pads and knuckles.

Just as suddenly as he had taken her into his mouth, as quickly he spat her out, mouth twisted into a self-deprecating sneer. "This will not happen," he ground out. "We... Will not..." A low Qunari word was spoken, dripping from his lips like a curse.

He let go, walking away without as much as a backward glance at how he'd left her, still shivering on the flat of the rock. She couldn't get up and follow him, knees still too weak and head light as clouds – all she could do was follow him with hooded eyes, the frantic beat of her heart slowing as he disappeared out of view. When he was gone, the weight of what they had done, of what he had said, descended upon her full-force.

She had fallen, completely and utterly.


	8. Tethered and Chained

"Go away, basra," the surly guard said, looking down his nose at her.

"I have to speak to the Arishok," Hawke repeated.

The guard sighed then shook his head, and she let out a frustrated groan.

For three days she had come down to seek entry, even going as far as taking on insignificant errand running for the viscount, but the gates did not open for anything she did. It was turning her into a desperate wreck: his words haunted her even worse than the actions on the shoreline, and they kept her awake at night as she pushed herself over the edge again and again, caught re-living the moment for lack of better things to do.

She hated it, hated the state he kept her suspended in, not letting her enter the compound to talk to him. It was the only solution she could think of – the topic had been breached, and there was much to talk about, much to try and understand. In her head, she attempted to prepare herself, thinking of how the conversation would go, but it kept derailing when his mouth was meant to open and speak words of wisdom and clarity. She simply couldn't predict him: until that fateful afternoon, she had accepted that her desires were misplaced.

So why had he done it? And why had he been so affected by it if it was just meant to be a gesture towards her? Hawke couldn't decide which possibility frightened her more: that she had imagined it all, or that he actually reciprocated that deceitful lust that drove her to ridiculous acts. Like begging for entrance to the compound.

Qunari were a riddle. She didn't get them, their philosophy, and it pained her. She wanted to understand him, wrap her mind around what was happening. Under his eyes, she had been slipping for far too long, and now she needed him to pull her back up.

That, alone, having to depend on another, on him to offer a solution and stability, was nothing short of infuriating.

Hawke had never let anyone affect her so. It was a point of pride for her, that she was a one woman army, fully self-sufficient and capable of dealing with her own sorrows, pains as well as joys and victories. Sure, she wasn't completely solitary – she had friends, and lovers, and what little remained of a family – but they were parts, and parts could fall away. She was prepared for that possibility.

Then the Arishok came and upset her delicate balance, and she was floundering wildly and achieving nothing.

"Let me in!" she demanded, patience running thin.

"The answer will not change, basalit-an. Be gone."

Pulling her sword on the guard would likely result in nothing but her own death – she was quite aware of the Qunari archers that kept their arrows trained on anyone who even strayed close to the gates. The temptation was strong, but she simply spat on the ground and stormed off in a rage, trying desperately not to get overwhelmed by her rushing emotions.

She was at a complete loss, and it was all his fault. If she ever saw him again, she thought darkly, she would most certainly give him a good beating... And probably shatter her fist in the process. Even when he wasn't around he got under her skin – near him or afar, he just had an uncanny knack for making her writhe.

A familiar voice called her name, and Hawke looked up to see Merrill standing in the middle of the dusty street. The lithe elf appeared to be almost frightened – the warrior realised she much look quite the sight, fuming with anger as she was.

Scolding herself to look more neutral and in charge of herself, Hawke sat down on the cool stone steps of the main stairs leading up to Lowtown. "Do I look that bad, Merrill?" she asked, waving for the elf to come sit by her side.

"You've got that look that you get when you're about to stab someone in their eye," Merrill said. "Are you going to?"

"Not for now, no."

Merrill crouched down in front of Hawke, peering at her with knitted brows. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Hawke sighed. "What are you doing here?"

Merrill pushed the basket she was holding into Hawke's lap. "I was going to deliver these to your home, but ran into Varric on the way, and he said he'd seen you heading down here, and I thought it'd be nice to say hello face to face and perhaps I should start with that. Hello, I mean. Hello, Hawke."

Hawke folded back the tattered towel covering the basket, and was hit instantly with a warm burst of the fragrant cookies within.

"They're Fereldan," she offered. "I thought, well, you don't get many good things from Ferelden here, and maybe you don't exactly miss a lot from there, but there were parts of it that didn't smell all bad. It took some time to get them right, if they're not edible you can just spit them out, or feed them to your mabari..."

Hawke held up a hand to silence the incessant rambling. "I'm not mad at you, Merrill. You don't have to keep doing this for me."

"It's hard to know with you!" She wrung her hands anxiously. "That demon in the Fade..."

"Anyone would have been tempted." Hawke shrugged. "What happens in the Fade isn't always real. I trust you as much I did before."

"And you certainly were keen to put your faith in me before... You're not good at comforting."

Hawke dipped her hand into the basket and picked up a cookie, offering it to Merrill. "Have one. I'm no wordsmith, it's true, but nothing says forgiveness like this."

Merrill took it and had a tentative bite – Hawke would have joined her, but her appetite had vanished and she was barely able to drink, even less capable of eating tooth-aching sweets. All she could do was watch the pleased expression on the elf's face, which all of a sudden transformed to worry and she let out a small yelp as a shadow blocked out the sunlight.

Looking up, she saw a Qunari towering above them where they sat on the steps. If she was not mistaken, the markings on his armour denoted him as being a Sten – and he looked a bit different from how the other Qunari she had come across, a slight tan, white hair tied back in braids, and a distinct lack of horns.

"Will the Arishok see me yet?" she asked, cautiously hopeful.

"No," he said curtly.

Her mood went for a sharp decline into the near-outright hostile range. "Then why are you bothering me?"

There was a low rumble from his chest, and he pointed at the basket in her lap. "Are those cookies?"

Hawke picked up one of the sweets, crust slightly soft still, and broke off a piece demonstratively, the insides crumbling into her palm. "That they are."

"How much?"

Merrill let out a low squeal of surprise – the elf had been obsessed with wondering about what the Qunari ate as of late.

"I'm not selling them." Then she tilted her head. "However... I'd be willing to consider a trade."

"Say it then."

 _Nothing ventured, nothing gained_ , she reminded herself, and put all of her remaining hope into the request. "I want to see the Arishok."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Vashedan! It'd be easier to just take them from you."

"Do you not know who I am?"

"Basra, I'm sure."

"I'm  _Hawke_." When the Sten did not react, simply blinking once, slowly, she continued. "I've got the dubious honour of... No, you know what? Go ask around among your Qunari brethren. They know my name, and they fear it."

The Sten turned immediately and went towards the compound, leaving Hawke alone with Merrill.

She wasn't sure what to think. Merrill babbled on at her side, and as much as she wanted to be able to pay attention she couldn't, too consumed with the possibility that he would return, that he would find a way to get her close to the Arishok. If he didn't, well, she was in for another night of torture at the mercy of her crystal-clear memory. All the lusts swirling within her, unchecked, untamed... Just the thought of another night between the sheets she soaked with her own sweat and scent and sore fingers working away at that knot that would not undo itself...

Only a few minutes could have passed when he returned, and yet Hawke had to restrain herself from bouncing up from the stairs and ask if he had succeeded. Her mouth opened but instead, he motioned wordlessly for her to follow him down an alley, and without even the slightest hesitation, she went with him.

"A basalit-an in this city, of all places," the Sten said, staring her down. "If you truly are Hawke, then you will not be able to enter through the front gate as it is."

She bit her lip nervously. "But you've found a way around that?"

He threw down a rolled-up carpet on the ground where it landed with a dull thud, stirring up the grit and dust. "Yes."

She eyed it, and then shook her head, knowing full well what he had in mind. "No."

"It is the only way."

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is not acceptable. I'm not a thing to be smuggled in and out!"

"I will offer nothing else."

"Fine," she ground out, kicking the roll to unfold and made to kneel down when his firm hand on her shoulder made her stop.

"No weapons and no armour."

"You might as well kill me right here and now!"

"That is to be decided at the Arishok's discretion. Either agree, or the offer is void."

She removed her armour reluctantly, glaring at the Sten as she did. All her instincts shouted at her to say no, to walk away, to ensure certain continued living over meeting the Arishok without a sword at her side. In fact, in all her memories, she had never stood before him disarmed. Yet, it was all she could do. It was what she  _had_  to do.

She lay herself down on the carpet, which was just enough to conceal her considerable height. Merrill helped roll her up initially, but the Qunari pushed her aside and wrapped Hawke tighter. When he was done, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, pressing down her legs against his chest. "Be limper," he grumbled, and she obliged.

Humiliating came to mind. Also incredibly stupid.

Merrill tapped on the stiff carpet. "Hawke? I'll wait here. Please don't be long," she added in a low whisper, "I forgot my twine."

* * *

After a few minutes (Hawke was counting silently, watching the small sliver of the outside world that she could glimpse from an opening in the carpet) the Sten shrugged his shoulder and sent Hawke falling towards the ground where she landed with a pained groan. As she picked herself off the floor, the door slammed shut – Sten had left, and looking up, she saw the Arishok, seated upon a backless chair by a massive mahogany desk, and the unreadable look on his face made her stomach twist in apprehension.

Suddenly, the fact that she was alone with him in a room, unarmed, seemed as much of a foolishly suicidal plan as she had thought previously. Only now there was no turning back, the door firmly closed, and a camp of Qunari who knew that she was not welcome there between her and safety.

"You found a way," the Arishok said, finishing off a sentence before putting the quill down. "As you always seem to do."

She sat up, feeling dizzy from the slight tumble she had taken. The Arishok merely regarded her with cool disdain as she moved sluggishly, taking care not to move her head too fast, lest the room start spinning around. Focussing on him as the solid point, she noticed that he wasn't wearing the usual shoulder pauldrons, nor the dark vambraces – the nakedness did not make him look any less intimidating, however.

"What other choice was there?" As the ringing sensation between her ears quieted down, she dared to stand up. "You had no wish to see me."

"I still don't."

"Well, deal with it." If only she knew how to bite her tongue, but feeling as exposed as she was, her knee-jerk reaction was it always had been: to goad and taunt a reaction. She was tempted to give herself a pat on the back for the incredible idiocy she possessed when sleep-deprived.

"I could easily do so, but it would result in your death." The dangerous edge he had to himself seemed more terrifying than ever before. "The reason for this visit, then?"

"You know damn well why I'm here. What you did to me, what passed between us... Why did you do that?"

"The Qun demands that I seek answers to questions, so that they do not disturb." He sneered. "And yet, it is as simple as this: because _I_ wanted to."

"Wanted to? That's..." Hawke couldn't quite wrap her mind around what he was saying. "Why?"

"I ask myself the same. This city continues to chafe, like an open wound left to rot, a grief for any Qunari to behold. It is a mess with a clear answer, yet no one who will seize it. But I did not come here to enlighten Kirkwall, and it is not a demand of the Qun that I do so. However, you... You I do not fathom. You do not threaten anyone but me. Me, alone."

Suddenly he rose from his seat and within the blink of an eye he was towering above her, and instinctively she scrambled to get away. No luck – his arm caught her around the waist and threw her against the wall, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs, tears forming in her eyes as she struggled to draw in breath, flailing wildly against his muscled shape.

His hand touched her cheek with a startling gentleness, but she swung her fist at his jaw, flinching at the impact of knuckle against cheek, but it left him snarling and backing away. Seizing the opportunity she flung herself at the desk, scattering the papers there to find a letter knife. As her hand grasped the hilt of one that looked sharp enough to at least scratch his skin, she whirled around only to find herself staring down the end of a sword.

"Surrender, Hawke."

They were both breathing heavily, chests rising and falling noticeably as they gazed at each other.

"I'm not in the habit of submission."

He let out a growl. "I do not want to spill your blood today."

She didn't move, stubborn as ever – and to her surprise he yielded first, lowering his sword and throwing it on the bed.

"Very well," she murmured, and it was only when she put down the dagger on the desk behind her that she noticed the faint tremors in her hands. Swallowing harshly, she held up her empty hands to show him that she wasn't a lethal threat... For the moment.

"Here we are, then."

It was awkward. All her questions seemed to have drained from her.

"Ask. I do not have limitless patience, even for a basalit-an."

"Why me? Why did you ask for me that day, of all people in Kirkwall?"

"You're hard to escape, your influence and presence seeping into the darkest corners of this city. The Viddathari speak of you, the ones this city left poor and dying in the gutters and who have found purpose under the Qun. My scouts watch you, I know more about you than necessary. That is why."

"That is not an answer!"

"It is all I can say!" he bellowed, and she bit the inside of her cheek.

They stood for a while in silence. Her eyes flickered between looking at him – his face, his naked shoulders, his knees – and then away, measuring up the sparse room, dimly lit up by a solitary high window through which sunlight filtered in. She counted the steps to the door, the steps to the window and deemed the bare wall impossible to scale – and she did her best to avoid looking at the bed that took up a considerable amount of space.

The things she could do to him on that mattress, and the things he could do to her...

He broke the tense moment, speaking in a calm and restrained tone. "Do you comprehend who I am?"

"The Arishok," she responded flippantly.

His eyes flashed. "You speak it as if it's my name. It's my role, it is what I was born to be, bred for this singular purpose of leading the Qunari military. There was never another path, never a different role for me."

"That's it, an entire life lived for a singular purpose?"

"Your ignorance is telling. But I am not attempting to educate you about the Qun. That is not my task. I am the Arishok," he repeated. "That is who I am, and that is why I will not let you corrupt me."

"Corrupt you? I never tried anything of that sort! I was just minding my own business, trying to act as an intermediary in this messy city before either side tears it apart, and you go and do that to me!"

"Do you deny that it was what you desired?"

No answer, just a frustrated huff.

"What would you have us do, then?"

"I don't know," she said. "I want to... Give in... And I know that will only cause further complications. Both of us have rules that we obey. Borders of conduct that we stay within, because we know what happens should we dare to step beyond them."

"We already have."

"It's still redeemable. There's still a way back. Always is. Just say you regret it, and we can go back to you being cranky invader and I the awful diplomat, and we can pretend everything's normal."

"Pretence is fleeing."

"It's  _coping_."

They had done it again – that subtle magnetic pull they seemed to have on each other had drawn them close without her noticing until she was half a pace away from him. She faltered, dumbstruck by his proximity. Near him, she felt just how the Arishok was a disastrous vortex upon everything she had kept in check for so long – no wild emotions, no volatile lusts. And he could tear it all down with no effort at all.

"It's not fair," she gasped, suddenly bereft of everything, "how you affect me so..."

"The same could be said about you."

His admission undid her. It took a tiny step forward, and there she was, too close for comfort, too close for her own sanity, but yet she stayed and cupped his jaw, feeling his muscles twitch under her hand. "Look at me," she pleaded.

The Arishok's eyes were as dark as ever, indecipherable and lethal, sorrowful and... Perhaps...

His height forced her to stand on her tip-toes, and still she barely reached up far enough to plant a kiss on his chin. The feel of his skin underneath her lips was smooth, warm and tinged with his fragrance that sent tingling sensations to her core. Unable to stop, she pressed another, firmer kiss to his skin, and then when he didn't push her away, she tentatively moved her lips over his, feeling the flutter of his warm breath tickling her lips, but there was a tiny slip of space, barely enough to put a scrap of paper between, yet enough to keep the lines somewhat clear.

Knowing that she was pushing her luck, she withdrew, and he did nothing to stop her, much to her disappointment. She thought to herself that there was nothing more then, that they were strong enough to look temptation in the eye and deny it. It was an oddly cold comfort, and she breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that it was over – when he reached out and touched her.

His hand pushed her roughly towards his chest, and pressed down between the shoulder-blades to hold her close before cupping the back of her head and tilting it back. Their faces close, his eyes taking in her flustered appearance – she imagined she looked a wreck, dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights, hair tousled, a generally unkempt edge to all of it – and then he breathed in deep, eyelids gliding down over his dark orbs as he did. Drinking in her fragrance.

She could feel his pulse where she had a hand against the column of his throat, a steady rhythm in stark contrast to her fitful one. Their lips strayed close, and she swallowed, feeling like caught prey in the hands of a predator, and she struggled against the urge to run and the yearning to stay, to have more. To have him.

"You're a personal war to me," he said in a low rumble that nearly made her knees buckle.

"Then..." Her voice had taken on a husky tinge which betrayed how much he was affecting her. She made as if to press her lips against him, but held herself still on the brink of contact. "Let me be it. Let me be your war."

Their lips grazed, a split moment of contact that made her whimper – but he let her go and she stumbled back, trembling, breath erratic, mind hazy with the thought of him, only him, all of him.

"Leave," he said, turning away from her. "I ask this of you. For now, there is nothing more here for us. For now."

She had no words, no thoughts, and obeyed him despite what she wanted. As she was about to pull the door open, his voice came to her.

"Hawke." Close to a plea, but still as proud as ever, her name rolling off his tongue in a way that had her at his mercy. "To continue down this path is most unwise... But I will not ask you to stop."

"Thank you," she whispered, opening the door and slipping out in the narrow corridor where she immediately bumped into the Qunari that had brought her in.

"You live," he noted.

"That I do."

"I shall guide you out, then. Your life is not forfeit yet, and it's best to let the others know as much."

Hawke couldn't answer, following as he led her to the gates, barely feeling the ground under her feet.

* * *

Isabela let out a low whistle as Hawke came down the alley where she had left Merrill. "A sight for sore eyes, Hawke!" She threw the dusty armour at the warrior, who caught it with one hand. "I sent Merrill to run along. She was dying to tell Varric some anecdote about Qunaris and baked goods."

The pirate approached Hawke, hips swinging from side to side as she took in the sight of the younger woman. "Seems like your tale might be a better one though. Crumpled clothes, ruffled hair, that blush on your cheeks... Not seen you like this for a while." She smirked. "Is it true what they say about Qunari? Horns make the man all the hornier. Get it?"

Hawke ignored the jab, working the armour onto her body, fingers trembling as she secured the straps. "What are you doing here?"

"Just keeping an eye on things. If you intend to incite a war, be sure to give me a heads-up."

"Nothing of that sort, yet. Something I can help you with?"

"We'll see." Isabela pursed her lips. "It's Wicked Grace tonight, and you haven't come around for a while. Up for a drink?"

Hawke let out a shaky breath as she picked up her sword. "Maker, yes. The strongest the Hanged Man has." She craved anything to dampen the storm – the Arishok had solved nothing, just worsened it all. And yet there was a smile tugging at her lips – a feeling in the pit of her stomach. That perhaps, there was a chance, however infinitesimal, that there was an end to the torment, and that he would be there to administer it unto her.


	9. Then It Fell Apart

It was well into late afternoon when Hawke found herself clear-headed enough to get out of bed – she had crawled home at an ungodly hour of the morning, fumbling up the steps with arm over Fenris' shoulders. They had tripped over each other's feet, stinking of the Hanged Man and Lowtown gutters, leaves stuck in their hair from taking a 'shortcut' through a Hightown garden, and finally somehow the elf had dropped Hawke off outside the Amell estate, where she had tumbled through the door, giddy and smiling to herself as she fell into bed.

She put the kettle back on the stove after re-filling it with water and took another sip of the cooling tea. In the hall, she could hear Gamlen throwing a fit about something, but she wasn't in the mood to find out what just yet, preferring to linger on piecing together the fragmented memories of the past night.

It had been a good one. Her tab had taken a horrific beating and she was sure to feel the sting of it for some days to come, but the look on Varric's face when she sauntered in with a smile and paying rounds for them all had been worth it.

Then things started to blur together. Hawke wasn't sure who had ordered in the flasks of Antivan _something_ , but she knew that she had five shots of it and the taste was still in her mouth come morning. Even the scent of it clung to her clothes, making her shiver with each breath of it she drew in. Her head thundered with an ache that was, thanks to the bitter cup of tea, slowly receding.

The commotion in the hall was getting on her nerves. Finishing off her cup in one swig, she retched slightly, face twisted from the awful aftertaste, and pulling her robe together she stepped outside to see what was going on.

Gamlen, upon seeing her, immediately abandoned his feeble attempts at trying to pry some words from Sandal, whose big blue eyes and vacant expression let Marian know he was considering how to best enchant her uncle's head. For all she knew. She didn't really get the dwarf prodigy, but he sure knew how to make things sparkle.

"Where's your mother?" Gamlen demanded to know, taking on a sour tone with his niece.

Marian shrugged, glaring at him cooly. "Out, probably, if she's not here. I just woke up."

Gamlen's face scrunched up, and she could tell he was about to say something judgemental of her lifestyle, as he so did enjoy moralising over her poor choices, but then he pinched his nose and let go, looking at her with... Worry? "I've been waiting for her for three hours."

There was a cold twist in her stomach. Tardiness or suddenly disappearing was not something Leandra would do.

"Was she meant to come see you?"

"She always visits at lunch on this day of the week, like clockwork. Did something happen to her?"

"No, she... She was fine last I saw her..." Marian turned to the dwarf butler. "Bodahn, when did you last see Leandra?"

"Mistress left, oh, I'd say four hours ago," Bodahn replied in his regularly jovial tone. "Don't worry, messere, I'm sure she's fine."

It could be nothing – it just felt like  _something_.

"Hopefully. Excuse me, I'll go get dressed for... This." Marian left Gamlen to sort out the more practical details of organization with Bodahn, feeling with each step how the coldness clutched a tighter hold upon her, icy tendrils shooting through her entire body in apprehension.

* * *

Wet slaps echoed in the foyer of Fenris' mansion, and while part of Hawke suspected what it was, her mind was still a bit fuzzy around the edges, and so she ignored the warnings and walked in on a sight that she was not in the least prepared for.

On top of the foyer stairs, Isabela was bent over the handrail, bracing herself against it as Fenris stood behind her, a light glow to his entire being and an oddly peaceful expression on him as he thrust his hips against the pirate's. They were moving in unison, not gentle but not callous, Fenris nipping at her shoulder before burying his face in the crook of her neck, letting out a low growl.

It was Isabela, cupping the elf's face, who opened her eyes and saw Hawke standing there, grinning wickedly as the warrior blushed.

"Oh! Hawke, fancy –  _oooh_!" Isabela's greeting was interrupted by something that Fenris did, the woman's entire body shuddering briefly as she squirmed and called out her pleasure.

Out of respect, Hawke turned around; she wasn't interested in peeking in on the highly private affairs of her companions. "Shall I give you some time?"

"Almost – ah – there!"

The front door slammed shut behind Hawke as she exited, and leaning on the ivy-clad wall the mansion she waited anxiously, fidgeting with the buckles on her shoes, adjusting and re-doing them because of imaginary aches and pinches. She had to do something, anything, to keep her hands occupied and by extension her mind.

Mother had just taken a wrong turn, or run into an old friend and decided she'd rather drink tea with someone who had manners enough not to sport cheese-crumbs in his beard rather than uncle Gamlen.

There were perfectly logical explanations that should set her at ease, yet weren't, her head and stomach competing to ache the worst.

As the door opened, Fenris stepped outside, still fixing his armour to him. "Hawke," he began apologetically, "I'm so sorry, I wasn't aware you were even there." Then he stopped, catching sight of her countenance. "What's wrong?"

"It's my mother, she's... Gone missing."

"Why didn't you say so?" Fenris scowled.

"I... Look, I came hoping you could come and... Help me. I'm not sure what's going on and honestly, I don't feel... Too well." It wasn't just traces of alcohol, though she sure felt it made for a good scapegoat.

"Of course, my sword is always yours."

Marian didn't respond, just smiled faintly and made a weak gesture with her hand that meant nothing, and quickly switched topics. "So, you and Isabela."

"Yes... Does it bother you? I thought we were–" Fenris trailed off, looking as if he'd made a blunder.

They had had a brief fling, two years prior, that had fizzled out before it even took off. A shame, Hawke had thought at the time, but as the months had passed she had moved on. Came by for the odd late night with wine and casual sex with no strings and feelings, though. Just two warriors relieving tension.

"We are. I'm not bothered. That was three years ago, things change. Our... Interests change."

"You hadn't come around for a while, so I thought it was through."

She made to touch Fenris, but knowing his aversion to unsolicited contact she held her hand. "We are. I'm just a bit surprised."

"Surprised?"

"Wrong word. Forget it. You two make a nice match."

He grunted, shifting on his feet. "You're a difficult one, Hawke."

"What are you two gossiping about?" Isabela asked with a quirked eyebrow as she soundlessly stepped outside to join them, fastening the sash around her waist with a pin.

Fenris gave Hawke one brief glance, but she didn't offer up a reaction. "Nothing, just the news of the day."

"Does it involve Qunari? They're on everyone's lips these days, hmm?" She winked at Hawke, and then turned to Fenris. "Did I tell you that our Hawkeling is grasping at Qunari horns?"

Not an ounce of subtlety in that girl, Hawke thought despairingly.

"Really?" Fenris gave her an appraising look that she couldn't understand, his brows knitted together and eyes narrowed. Not quite anger, definitely not jealousy, but something wholly different.

* * *

When Hawke spotted the first blood stains, part of her immediately shut down, retreating into a fantasy. She was just running on automatic reactions, listening to Aveline's voice but not comprehending the words, hands clenched around her drawn sword as she swallowed around the tightness in her throat while her mind fled as far as it could.

 _A time and place where Bethany and Carver were alive and well, living in Kirkwall and enjoying the splendour and freedom the Deep Roads expedition had afforded them. Wealth and glory without lifting a finger, with delicacies to eat and men to plunder at night. Except what true joy was there in that for her? Slipping out at night to steal heated moments with her own personal demon before casting aside all she had secured for her family and abscond with him?_

The stench in the underground passages were horrific. And the blood, the blood was everywhere, small fresh puddles leading them onward.

 _She pictured a beach. A beach with a tall winding house secured against the cliffs and ocean spray on the windows, tar on the small boats drying in the sun, and fishes being gutted by her nimble hands. With the passing of the seasons she would watch for the ships, sailing with their dark red sails hoisted high, waiting for his dreadnought to come to back to her. To come see her. That one morning when the seasons were right he would be walking along the beach, unarmed and unarmoured, Qunari paint washed off and horns sawed off to stumps. In a place where they had both cast off their roles, they would meet... And of course, no such place would ever exist outside the boundaries of her own fertile mind._

Faced with the man that had lured her mother away – the mage had performed such disgusting rites – and she snapped, the battle-rage blinding her and pushing her back into the safety of dreams.

 _She concocted a figment, a nightmare, a battlefield. Not a natural habitat for her, or at least she didn't consider it as such – even as much as it was becoming more than second nature to her now. However, on this wide plain, there were only two combatants: her and the Arishok. The two of them locked in a constant duel, tireless and immortal, waiting for the other to yield as they clashed over and over, their blades growing dull and their armour rusting and falling off. Embroiled in the war they were, the whole world burned around them, and they never once let their eyes stray from the other, blocking and attacking, scraping the other and bruising themselves, an eternity of struggle and quest for victory that would not come. Just the glory of the battle itself, never-ending._

Cradling her mother in her arms, she found that she had no place left to run, no escape to find. Just an abomination's body with her mother's... Head...

The sob escaped her throat before she could stop it, and nothing was able to distract her from the horrific truth she was faced with. That she had failed in her duty – that she was not a protector – that she wasn't anyone worth a damn if she couldn't even keep those closest to her alive.

There were hot tears welling up, burning her eyes.

In Lothering, during the spring, the banks would flood over. When Bethany was fourteen, she got distracted and wandered out, and Marian ran through the mud to follow and pull her out before she waded to deep out and got lost. Of course, it was Marian who got caught and had to be rescued, Marian who sank into the churning point between mud and water, the cold seeping through her clothes and making her sputter for breath. The crushing masses of earth and water threatening to swallow her whole. Even when she'd been pulled out by father, there were broken bones to mend, and a fever to stave off – and all throughout it, all Marian had been able to think of was the utter despair of having everything squeezed out of her.

It felt like that again.

"Oh Marian," Leandra sighed, smiling weakly, trying to comfort her daughter. "You came. My darling, you came and saved me."

"I tried." Only it wasn't enough. Could never be enough. "I could have..."

"You saved me. This is better than being captive." Leandra's eyelids fluttered, the sallow cheeks growing paler, the once bright eyes dull – but there was still something left. A tiny sliver, hanging on. "Don't cry, darling. I'll be going to a better place. But you..."

Marian wished she could reach past the veil and pull her mother's soul back. Find a way to fix things. To do it all over.

"You'll be all alone."

Everything that had merely threatened to do so now burst forth, and Marian wept quietly, clutching her mother's hands tightly.

"I think I asked too much of you," Leandra murmured, voice faint and distant, even though the words were spoken with utter clarity. "We all did. Marian, I wish you'd been happier."

"You didn't ask, I gave. Willingly. And I'd do it all over again, and again, forever."

The smile on Leandra's lips froze, and Marian hunched over, refusing to let go even as Aveline tugged at her shoulder and offered to escort her home and take care of all the practical. Eventually the guard-captain and Isabela peeled Marian's fingers off her mother's body, one by one, and each of them taking an arm over their shoulder, carried her out of there.

* * *

In the estate, stripped out of her armour and alone after having re-assured Aveline and Isabela that she'd be alright, Hawke got out of bed and wandered to the writing desk, a magnetic pull driving her there.

The whole house was quiet, dark curtains drawn shut over the windows and black pieces of cloth hanging over any bright furniture. She tip-toed across the cold floor on unsteady feet – Anders had given her a potion to let her sleep, and it had begun taking effect – and tapped her fingers against the tabletop, thoughts drifting and fragmenting, then solidifying once again.

Grasping the quill with a shaking hand, she put the nib to the parchment and scribbled out a single line.

 _I need you._

Regretting it, she crossed it over.

 _I need some time alone._

Crossing the second line over, she gave it a third try.

 _I need so much right now._

She crumpled the note and threw it on the fire, and as she watched the paper turn into crumbling embers, a cold, clear thought cut through the veil of utter heartache and sorrow, a thought that she wished she didn't have to endure. She needed to go see a tailor and get a new mourning dress. The mere memory of the last time she wore that black veil made her choke.


	10. In The Rain

Days passed after the funeral, and Hawke woke only to shuffle the food set out for her around on the plates so as to make it look like she was at least trying to eat it, and then twist into the sheets again, clutching the black veil in her hands. It was an easy rotation of sleep interspersed with wakeful moments. At odd hours she could overhear conversations between her companions as they bickered in low voices outside her bedroom – that is, until she demanded they let her be alone, and they were all turned away at the front door, despite the vocal concerns uttered by Bodahn.

It was extreme, but she knew of no other way to cope. There was a depth, and she felt compelled to dig deep into it, letting all fall away as she sunk from the surface into the murky darkness below. It was the only way she knew, the only way she would consider to get through such sorrows.

Stale air, stale thoughts, and sleeping and waking.

The ravaging tides of loss would abate, she assured herself. Thoughts would be less muddled by extreme bursts of nostalgic longing for a time that had forever left her, for a family dead and buried. It hurt, small pangs that felt like stab wounds in her chest, aimed at her heart, but as time wore on the acuteness eroded.

Slowly, she felt that she could breathe a bit easier, the iron in her lungs giving way. She spent a few minutes more awake, staring at the ceiling, at the dark curtains closing out all light from the windows. If she awoke in the night, she would venture downstairs, past the covered portraits on the wall, and into the antechamber that was awash in demure flowers that made her nose itch.

For a few stolen moments, she would simply stand there, calloused fingertips touching the delicate petals, eventually picking one among the many different types whose names she had never learnt, and break off a single blossom to take with her up to the room and put it on the night-stand. As she drifted off to sleep again, she studied it, memorizing the curve of each petal, the softness and smell.

All she dreamt about for days on end were flowers.

* * *

Hawke awoke to the sound of commotion downstairs, voices arguing. The house had been quiet for days, and she rose reluctantly to see who Bodahn had failed at turning away. While he did a good job and heeded her requests, she had noticed that he was poor at denying some of her more persuasive acquaintances from finding a way into her home. That, and the ones swinging a weapon seeking to threaten their way in.

Before she opened the door, she stopped in front of the covered mirror and lifted the fabric to have a peek at herself. The little glimpse she caught was a pale ghost with dark circles under the glossy eyes: the crumpled black dress she wore had creases all over, and she gave it a tug to adjust it, putting the veil back on over her hair. It wasn't a perfect visage, but it had to make do.

Eyes downcast, she came to top step of the stairs before clearing her throat loudly to announce her presence, and was a bit startled at the visitor.

"Hawke." The Ashaad spoke her name with a respectful bow of his head. He made for an odd sight in her home, bare-chested and with pole-arm in hand.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, gripping the banister tightly, trying very hard not to sway in front of the Qunari. It had been a few days since she'd been out of bed properly, as her light-headedness reminded her of.

"I have come on behalf of the Arishok."

"What does he want?"

"That is for the Arishok to divulge. He asks for your presence."

"I'm not in a position to leave my home." Her knuckles ached, words draining. "If he wishes to talk to me, he will have to wait."

The Ashaad did not move, merely staring at her like he couldn't comprehend what she was saying.

"Was there anything else?"

"No."

"Then leave," she said firmly, turning around to stumble back into her bedroom.

Falling on top of the mattress, she lay completely still, ears ringing and small specks of light dancing in front of her eyes, tracing out erratic patterns that hurt to behold.

It struck her that she was in such a state of disarray because she was truly indulging in feeling the heartache, the sorrow, for the first time in her life. That time and need and surroundings had never been able to give her that luxury before.

When the dizziness cleared, she got up and asked for Bodahn to dispose of all the bouquets wilting away in the house.

* * *

The dress was uncomfortable, there was no way around it. While Hawke had slept in it for some days, and the stiff collar had budged somewhat to how her neck was actually shaped, the seams still cut into the skin, the sleeves warped themselves around her arms, and the skirt... Oh, the horror it was to walk in. Too loose in the wrong places, too snug around the calves.

Digging her finger into the lace around the collarbone, she worked the hole she'd torn in her sleep bigger until she could fit a second finger in there, and began to pull, tearing the fabric from shoulder to shoulder.

The fire crackled as she threw the first scraps onto it, but she didn't stop to admire the flames engulfing the horrific cage of cloth she'd been wearing for days on end, instead beginning to pluck at the seams, looking for a loose thread.

It was a custom: the mourning wear was meant to be restraining and cumbersome and ache to wear, just like the sorrow in the heart was, and it was worn until the person caught inside it themselves found a way out. In ancient days, long before Ferelden had been united, some clan members of the mountain tribes went on to wear their shackles for years, even going so far as to add actual steel into the costume. The forces of time had slowly eradicated that particular habit, making it little more than a flourish to add to the tales of the female knights who went on barbaric crusades to avenge their lost husbands.

It hadn't taken her long to find a Fereldan-style tailor willing to sew her into the dress – but the hours seated in the studio as the seamstresses worked to put her grief into clothing were painful. Their needles had pricked her skin, the posturing made her limbs ache, and when it was done she had to rush to the service itself. Not an easy feat in such constricting wear.

When the sleeves were off, she folded her arms across her chest, hands grasping at the fabric stretched taut across her back. There were two small creases at just the right place there, and she wasted no time before tearing into it and ripping the back open, the intricate beading broken and small dark pearls falling to the floor around her – those tortuous beads that dug into her spine every time she had rolled onto her back while sleeping, jerking her awake. Every piece that seemed decorative served a dual purpose.

Half-naked in front of the fire, she took a deep breath, shoulders trembling. She wasn't sure if she was done mourning, but she was damn sure done with wearing the prison of it.

The rest of it gave way to her strength with little effort now that her arms could move unrestricted, but instead of enjoying the nakedness she yearned for the contrast of... Something heavy.

The armour felt natural to slide into, the weight comfortable, the ease with which she moved in it liberating. It was cool against her skin, and she closed her eyes as she adjusted the chest-plate, savouring the moment briefly before she grabbed her sword and headed out in the dusky Kirkwall evening.

Hawke was let into the compound without any fuss, and she waited in the near-empty courtyard for the Arishok, kicking up small clouds of dirt as she shuffled across the ground.

There was no question if she should be there or not – her resolve had never been sharper. In losing everything, she had at least gained a careless courage in admitting to herself what else she did not want to slip out of her hands.

"No words," she said as he finally approached, raising her weapon. "Just duel me."

Their duel at first was fledgling, the Arishok holding back as much as she was. Each step and strike was cautious, measuring the other's intent. She knew she could tap into the wilderness inside, and just go more or less berserk on him – but there was no appeal to exhaust herself against him in such a manner. For some reason, she craved the fight itself, long and drawn-out, rather than a victory.

For his massive size, he was just as fast as her, keeping up with her swift foot-work and blocking her half-hearted attacks, but she knew that if he wanted to, he could end the duel in a matter of seconds. So she offered up her throat and he went for it, knocking her to the ground and disarming her. It hurt, breathing in dirt into her aching lungs, but it felt right too.

He helped her up, and as she got on her feet she noticed that they were alone in the yard, her troubled breathing the only noticeable sound. She held on to his arms then, shamelessly exhausted, forehead resting against his chest as she caught her breath. They stood like so for a long while, Hawke leaning on his strong body, a part of her wishing for the moment to continue forever, his heat against hers oddly soothing.

Eventually, and with a disappointed sigh, she untangled herself from him and wordlessly left.

* * *

Alone in the kitchen, the strange feeling of dread at being in charge of a household dawned upon her. Not that she worried about financing the lifestyle she led – she had gold stacked high enough not to – but her concern was that she had close to no clue how to put that to use when it came to the little details.

The kitchen was not her domain, but she nonetheless set to work. She had quizzed Orana in great detail before letting the girl take the rest of the day off, and had then gone to the market and bought all the necessary fresh ingredients, nodding politely at their condolences as payment and wares exchanged hands.

With all of it spread out on the workbench in front of her, she took a step back, gnawing on her thumb. She could easily step away from it and let someone else do it.

Still. She really needed to learn how to feed herself. Of all the things she could do, cooking was a task she had never really gotten a grasp of. It was a matter of self-reliance and, to a lesser but equally serious degree, personal pride. Late nights doing jobs and coming home to eat cooling remains, or if she was lucky, sit down and be able to watch, half-asleep, as someone else prepared a meal for her. All she knew of cooking was what she had gathered from observing others.

It was easy enough to shred the tomatoes and put them in the pot, adding a bit of cream as she lined up the rest of the vegetables to be sliced and diced. As long as she followed the relatively simple instructions, she hoped she wouldn't wreck havoc on the kitchen. Like the time Bethany, barely eight, had tried to make a snack and charred half the pantry instead. While Leandra had been horrified, Malcolm had taken it in a stride, oddly proud of his mage daughter to be able to conjure such violent flames.

Within a few cuts into the first onion, she felt tears begin to well up in her eyes, and she rubbed them away with the back of her hand, sniffling loudly. Still, a single tear escaped her attention and rolled down her cheek and dripped off her chin to land on the unevenly sliced bits. Teeth gritted, she continued to dice the onions, one at time, even as tears streamed and blurred her vision so badly that she cut into her own thumb.

Pulling her hand back, a few drops of blood came out before the flow ceased, and she pressed a towel against it, looking at the thick drops drying on the floor. The pattern was vaguely reminiscent of how the kitchen floor had looked when Carver had stumbled home and told Marian he'd gotten them both into the King's army after a night of drinking with her mercenary acquaintances in the tavern, and she had thrown him to the ground thinking he was joking. When she figured out he wasn't, she had wrestled with him – only Carver was a strong bastard when he was drunk, and he'd eventually gotten the upper hand. He'd let her go, and she'd ruffled his head, noting he was bleeding, and called him an idiot, but she'd said it smiling.

Mother hadn't been as happy when she heard of their plans.

The tomatoes began to boil, and she threw the onions on top, stirring them together as she eyed the recipe for what spices to use. Half the jars in the spice cabinet were unlabelled, so she had to go by her sense of scent, and eventually gave up searching for rosemary and simply went by what she liked, her olfactory glands so over-stimulated that the merest whiff of anything caused her nose to wrinkle up and threaten a sneeze.

Dropping two plucked chicken legs in, she put the lid on the pot and began cleaning up the tools she had used, taking her time as she removed each stain and dried the utensils off, putting them back in their appropriate places. By the time she was done, the whole kitchen smelled of the stew, and she took it off the fire and heaped half of the contents into a bowl, seating herself at the kitchen table.

Pausing, she gazed into the creamy stew, stirring it thoughtfully with her spoon as she waited for it to cool. The dying fire crackled, sparking a memory.

A night in Lothering, a few weeks before Malcolm passed. Completely unremarkable, in all aspects of it: it was just another evening where Marian and Malcolm stumbled home, weary and muddy from a long expedition into the wild forests to gather herbs. The twins were arguing at the dinner table, Carver pulling on Bethany's braids and Bethany flicking iced fingertips against his jaw.

Marian deposited the hare she had felled onto the table, throwing a sheathed knife at Carver and telling him to be an useful brother and prepare it. She then went out through the back door and poured water into the basin, splashing her bared neck and face with the cold liquid. Through the window, she could hear Leandra and Malcolm arguing about the suitor that was coming around, trying to get a foot in early with the parents for Marian's favour. While Leandra found it endearing, Malcolm fretted, worrying over the safety of the family.

That night, Marian had snuck out and given the boy a black eye, scaring him and any potential suitors in Lothering off forever.

The assault of memories were less frequent than she had expected, but the ones that did float to the surface were so intense and vivid that they often caught her off-guard, leaving her reeling as she attempted to regain her composure.

She peeled some meat of the chicken bone and dipped it in the thick sauce, devouring it ravenously. For being her first meal, and albeit rough around the edges and having taken as long as it had, it was satisfying her hunger perfectly.

He waited for her that night, polishing his axe on his throne as she arrived.

The game with the Arishok was rougher, with him rescinding some mercy and control and taking her by surprise. It wasn't brutal, just different – and perhaps, exactly what she needed.

Once, when he had her locked back against his chest, his mouth brushed against her bared neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. That was the only touch he allowed himself, brief and fleeting, and yet after they ended their bout she could still feel the tentative attempt at biting her before he'd withdrawn, the coarse tongue leaving a speck of wetness which felt cool in the chill air long after it dried.

"The news of what happened did not pass unnoticed," he said suddenly as she was rolling her shoulders afterwards, feeling herself for any injuries. His words froze her up, and he took her silence as an incentive to continue. "It is not a grief I can relate to, but I see that you are in distress. I offer... What I can."

"It's helping," she said meekly.

"Is this need for battle a custom among your people?"

"In some remote clans of Ferelden, it was. Before they became civilized. Now it's just a way for me, a path through it." She shrugged, looking out to the harbour where the lighthouse shone dimly through the mists."Why must you ask? Don't you suffer sorrows that drive you to the edge?"

"We do. Would you think us heartless beasts? We suffer, we bleed – it is part of life. What you are afflicted with, we call the solitary struggle. It is a malignant sorrow that nestles into the very essence of the one who is afflicted with it, and they alone must find a way through it."

"Cheerful." She ran her hand through her hair, sighing. "So why do you allow me here, if you think I'm going through that?"

"It is custom. While those around them cannot ease the sorrow itself, nor provide the solution for the struggle, we can provide food and presence, and that eases the process. Eventually, the outcome is achieved, and the choice is made." He paused, following to where her eyes were locked onto the lighthouse that shimmered in and out of view. "You will find a way through it yet, Hawke."

"How confidently you speak those words."

"We are warriors. We find strength, and we find ways."

She swallowed, unable to look at him as they parted for the night.

* * *

Warm water enveloped her as she lowered herself into the tub, but she only soaked for long enough to feel the quick softening and wrinkling of her fingertips, and then reached for the stone. She started to scrub at her skin, working her way in determined, slow circles from the bottom to the top. The dead skin came off, leaving her with a raw sensation, and she gently dabbed herself dry, wincing when she noted she had been to harsh at some points in her ministrations.

Emptying the bath, she stood naked in front of the mirror, studying herself, trying to find if she was any different. There was no visible cue, but there was a feeling, a slight shift in perception. If she narrowed her eyes, she thought she could see the muscles that had grown more defined. The scar left by the Arishok still gleamed bright pink, but it didn't hurt as she fingered it, the soft cross-formed tissue almost endearing to her. She liked it.

Wrapping herself in a light robe, she went out and walked around the house, tearing down the black covers from the portraits and furniture, gathering up the massive sheets into piles outside each room. Pulling the thick curtains apart, the late afternoon sunlight tickled her nose and made her sneeze, dust particles dancing in the air.

She had sent Orana to the Chantry, telling her to ask them for help to find her own place in the world – and if the elf found it insufficient, she could come back. Orana had been teary-eyed as she had left, and it had pained Hawke to see the girl as upset as the day she was rescued, but it didn't feel right to keep her on. Not that Hawke could put a finger as to why, but she needed the house to herself. As much as she had tried to barter and coax Bodahn and his son to leave, Bodahn adamantly refused, but acquiesced to leaving the main house alone for a week,  _if that is what messere Hawke requires_.

All that was left was Dog, who was whining and sniffing around the kitchen threshold, signaling his want for a meal. Hawke gave him an absent-minded pat as she entered, filling up a bowl for him.

"I think I ought to name you," she murmured, putting down the bowl of leftovers in front of the mabari. He looked up at her with a tilt of his head, ignoring the food.

Bethany had given Marian so much grief over the fact that she didn't see a point to give the hound a name, especially since it listened well enough to Dog, even trying to trick Marian into naming it. The mabari didn't seem to mind, content either way as long as he got to run around and eat whatever he wished. Carver had just shrugged at the sisters, doing his best to pretend he wasn't jealous.

"Dog is fine and dandy, but if you're going to stay with me, maybe you need a proper name. A name of your own." She pursed her lips. "I'll think of one soon enough. Go on, eat."

* * *

"You look cold," the Arishok remarked, watching Hawke huddle under the thick orange canopy stretched between the buildings as he sat on his throne.

She shook her head. "I'm fine." The air exhaled came out as a thin fog hanging in front of her mouth – the temperature had taken a sharp nosedive earlier during the day as the clouds had gathered, but she had not paid them any attention. Their, by now, regular duel had been interrupted when the gathering clouds had burst open and poured down an ocean upon Kirkwall.

The rain came down in heavy sheets, drumming against the canopy with no near end in sight. She took off her gauntlets and brushed some stray raindrops from her face, then stood there again, feet shuffling, the puddles in the yard growing larger as heavy drops battered the ground.

"How are you finding your new-found freedom?"

"Lonely," she replied after some moments of thought.

"Then it is understood correctly."

"I don't mind the loneliness. It's liberating to be able to act on my own than to constantly consider how it'll affect someone else."

"The actions of yours still ripple the surroundings, make no mistake."

"Kirkwall is just scenery. A city to be in. Perhaps I'll move, strike out, find myself a better place."

He chortled. "How you deceive yourself. You will not leave this city, because for all your talk of freedom and loneliness, you still have a duty that binds you here. As do I."

She crossed her arms, leaning against the pillar. "Put duty aside for a minute, and consider this: there are moments where we can choose. Right now, I've chosen to be here. You've chosen not to turn me away. That means something."

"It does," he relented.

"It means, as much as we're unwilling to admit it, at least one of us is looking through their fingers at this omni-present duty pervading our lives."

She pushed herself away from the pillar and cautiously approached him. The paint on his chest had smeared slightly, a first that she had seen. She had generally assumed it was tattoos, and unthinking, she reached out a finger to touch the red marks. Colour got onto her fingertips, and she rubbed it against her thumb, watching the dark stain her hands. It had a strange allure to it, the feel and smell and sensation.

The Arishok merely watched her little fascination with it, saying nothing.

Catching herself in the moment, she wiped her hand on her trousers and licked her lips nervously. "Humour me."

"I tend to."

"If you were given the opportunity, what would you do right now?"

There was a second of hesitation before he spoke. "Leave Kirkwall, the city trembling in fear as they know what is to come, one day. Leave on our dreadnoughts and not return until the day the Qun sends me back." His eyes flickered to her. "I would take you with me."

"To Par Vollen?"

He only smiled at her question.

Hand on her hip, she smiled at him. "I'm not going to be some easy conquest."

"There is no underestimation of your skills. Though undisciplined, you're worthy."

"Worthy? For what?"

"To be a great prisoner of war."

What he said didn't faze her. "And what am I to you?"

"All too much, and all the decidedly dangerous things. A rival, perhaps."

"I can take that."

She stood with knees pressing against his, licking her lips as she looked down at him, confidence suddenly drained. His gaze darkened, and she offered him a tiny nervous smile, as if trying to convey that no, she had no idea what was going to happen either, but that she wasn't about to back out. Hands on his shoulders, she bent close and pressed her closed lips to his. Just a chaste peck.

As she was about to pull back, he slid a knee between her legs, tugging her down so she was straddling his lap, her fingers grasping for a grip and ending up nestled by his throat.

"This path you seek to tread will not be easy."

"I know," she murmured.

"Do you still wish to pursue it?"

"Yes."

"So it will be."

She drew in a shaky breath as his hand tilted her chin back, lips pressing against hers. Her tongue darted out and met with his, and as the kiss deepened she pressed herself closer to him, overwhelmed by his taste, his fragrance, his warmth seeping through her plate armour.

With a pant she broke the kiss and gasped for air, drawing in deep lungfuls before returning to his mouth, fervent and craving, demanding more as her hands cupped the back of his head and pulled him close, hands on where his horns melded into skull. Upon touching the skin there he let out a growl that reverberated throughout her body, and she soon followed as his hand slipped to her lower back, his claws digging through the fabric.

When the rain eased up, she pulled away, flushed and wanting more, but she made a feeble excuse that he accepted – she couldn't tell if he was happy she was leaving or not – and as she walked out, she noticed the red paint from his chest all over her chestplate, the lingering rain streaking and diluting it to flow into the nicks in the plate.


	11. The Bitter Taste

Aveline pushed the map across the desk towards Hawke, who turned it around using her index finger and furrowed her brow as she tried to make sense of it.

"That's the Waking Sea, am I right?"

"Did you never study geography?"

"Aveline, when you grow up in a mud-hole like Lothering, there's not much need," Hawke said with a wry smile, dragging her fingernail over the intricate road systems of the Orlesian Empire. None of the names were exactly familiar, though she could pick out one or two among the foreign lettering.

"I was down at the docks making inquiries with captains the other day."

"Has Isabela finally talked you into seizing a ship to give to her?"

Aveline's nose wrinkled, but there was still a sliver of mirth in her vivid green eyes. "The day I do, be sure to slap me before kicking me down the stairs. Either one should scramble me back to a functional moral scale." Her expression softened. "But no, I was looking into fares for a trip to Val Royeux. Mainly."

"I do hear that's supposed to be marvellous this time of the year."

The guard-captain let out a bitter laugh. "Perhaps, but neither of us will see it until the Qunari situation re-stabilizes. Some days, I doubt it ever will."

Tempers had been flaring particularly high the last couple of days after a group of noble daughters converted to the Qun. Their mothers, nervous and angry, had been wandering between the Chantry to pray for them to remain safe at the mercy of such 'savage fiends', and going to petitioning the Viscount for a forcible return.

It didn't matter that Hawke had gone down to the compound –the noblewomen refused to follow, their feet to delicate to tread the same ground as barbarians – and spoken to the prodigal daughters. They were all fine, even content – each one of them said the same thing, that they had forsaken their Hightown lives of being pushed from dinner to party to social brunches because it left them feeling hollow. That they above anything else desired a purpose, and the Qun, while radically different from what they grew up with, gave them that.

"I wish my mother would understand," one of the older ones had said, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder as she hoisted a heavy book half the size of her torso onto her hip, "that as pleasant as her life is, it doesn't mean anything to me. I don't want to grow into an echo of her, like she was an echo of her mother, and grandmother... I yearn for the day when I am measured and my role given." She flashed a giddy smile as she pictured it for herself. "I think I would make a great philosopher. I'm already working my way through the books they have."

Not that she would ever admit it, but Hawke pitied the girls. It wasn't that she thought their conversion was a childish rebellion to stuff in the faces of their fainting mothers, no – she could actually sympathize with finally being able to chose for yourself. Even if the role was s _ucceed for glory or fail for death_.

What she pitied was that the social layers of Kirkwall were so rigid in their demands that once you were born into a particular role, it was difficult to break free of it.

The Amell-Hawke family was, of course, the exception to the rule – but only partially. While Gamlen still lived in his hovel and ate his stale bread while squandering whatever gold he had on prostitutes and drinking, Hawke had for some reason dusted off the family crest and returned them to where they belonged. In a way, nothing ever changed in Kirkwall.

Of course, the Arishok had been less than ecstatic to see her. The visit, filing into official territory, allowed them both to slip on their masks of respectfully disagreeing and arguing, which was a more comfortable role to both of them than their odd dance of pull and push going on in private. After she had gathered up letters from the converting girls to be delivered to their mothers, she found the Arishok casting a shadow over where she was sitting, stuffing the envelopes into her satchel.

He had, in a not-so-delicate manner, said he did not enjoy having his people harassed by the citizens of Kirkwall, and she caught on to the tone hinting that he wasn't entirely sure he should even be letting Hawke talk to them. Which was rich, because then the next day she was caught in a stuffy office at the Viscount's Keep guard barracks getting bluntly told by Aveline that the word going around town was that Hawke was straying dangerously close to becoming a Qunari sympathizer.

"There was some interesting gossip I managed to wring out of one dockworker though," Aveline said as she stood up, pressing her finger at a specific road, not too far from the coast off Val Royeux. "The Qunari here came from Orlais, it would seem. Not commonly known, though few nations in Thedas willingly admit to having dealings with the Qunari after the Llomerryn Accord, but word from dissenting templars have it that the Orlesians seized some prized treasures of the Qunari nation."

"And you gathered all this from a dockworker?" Hawke said in disbelief.

"Don't take me for a fool, Hawke," Aveline reproached, scowling. "I know a true word when I hear it. Besides, it's not just one man. There's inconsistencies, and eyewitness accounts from that stormy night when they washed ashore." She tapped her finger against an empty glass, pursing her lips. "Four ships, including the Qunari dreadnought, were lost that night. Only one of the others has been accounted for."

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're torn between your friendships and your loyalty to the city."

"Sometimes, Hawke, you're not as dense as you pretend to be." Aveline flashed a brief smile. "I'm concerned about some of Isabela's men. Former crew-members, I'd wager, but I have no solid proof. Some of them have... Disappeared."

"Pirates and smugglers have a habit of vanishing without prior notice."

"There's something going on, Hawke, but I can't put my finger on what exactly. It's annoying me."

Hawke knew exactly what Aveline meant: there were things going on, seemingly unrelated, but that left her with a feeling that there was more than met the eye. She was just unable to piece it all together. "Why are you so invested in this, anyway?"

"I'm doing this on orders of the seneschal. He seems to have caught on to something, and has set me about investigating the details of why the Qunari refuse to leave. Which means I'm stuck going through dock registries and sailor stories, trying to trace the circumstances of that night and the reason as to why they will not leave."

"Seems everyone in this city wants them gone."

"That would be correct," came the cool drawl of seneschal Bran's voice from the doorway. Hawke cursed inwardly before turning to flash a stiff smile at Bran, which was not returned. Aveline did not move from her seat, but muttered a greeting under her breath. "I see you've chosen to inform serah Hawke of your assignment."

"I deemed it wise to do so, considering she's the one your Viscount has sent to grovel at the Arishok's feet."

"From what I hear," Bran said, stepping across the threshold, "she doesn't quite grovel."

Hawke didn't allow the jab to affect her, at least not visibly. Or so she hoped. "What have you heard?"

"Guard-captain, may I borrow Hawke for a minute?"

Aveline shook her head in resignation. "I'll go check on your mabari. Make sure he's not eating the recruits up."

As Aveline got up and left, the silence in the room hung thick as Bran and Hawke sized each other up. Mutual dislike was almost too mild a term for their strained relationship, but they were both professional enough to overlook that slight issue. In the name of Kirkwall.

What she did not like, however, was what he was implying about her and the Arishok. She was quite certain no one had been around to witness any of the more intimate moments to have passed between her and the Qunari leader, but the more she thought about it, the more possibilities that she had been careless popped up.

It was also possible that the seneschal was just being an unbearable asshole trying to frustrate her for his own personal entertainment.

So she leaned back in the chair and folded her arms. "What work do you have for me then, Bran?"

"This matter requires utmost discretion. Not something you're known for, but Dumar sees potential. I would prefer you be left out of it completely, but that is neither here nor there." When she merely crossed her legs and waited for him to continue, his left eyebrow twitched visibly. "Very well. The Arishok sent a delegate for discussions. It went as expected, though sometime after leaving these offices they went missing."

"I assume the Arishok knows of this?"

"There is no point to telling him, just yet."

"Ah. You're afraid of losing another one of your simpering messengers."

"Sending anyone but you would be sealing their death warrant. Now that you are informed, I suspect the Arishok will know soon enough, and you will have done your dutiful part in tearing this fragile peace apart."

"All in a day's work, senschal."

His eyes narrowed to tiny slits. "Your Fereldan ways may be a charming quirk to the Viscount, but do not take me for a fool. I see that you are nothing but a sword-for-hire: an effective one, perhaps, but you lack finesse. Once this matter is laid to rest, whatever political sway you have deluded yourself into thinking you have will be gone."

She quirked an eyebrow. "That's a threat."

"I am a a bureaucrat; threats are not part of my business. No, I am simply stating the harsh truth."

She smiled, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes. "Who do you think would be able-bodied enough to take out a group of Qunaris? They're not the easily conquered type."

He cleared his throat, moving past the little dark exchange of theirs. "On my suggested compromise – you must understand, having armed Qunari running around in the keep is highly inappropriate and worrisome – they had their weapons tied into the sheaths."

"That would explain how someone got them, but not how it hasn't garnered more attention."

"I suspect the city guard would have noticed it, but not yet. The weak link is there. If you find it, you are sure to find out who is behind it."

"I'll bet you it's extremists, in some form or another."

"I am not a gambling man, not when the safety of Kirkwall is being wagered. Find where men sell their swords for a pittance, unlike your type, who apparently makes it a point to squeeze a considerable sum from the city's treasury."

"You could just say 'go to the Hanged Man and keep an ear to the ground', and I'd be gone within the minute. Maker knows being in your presence isn't doing anything for me."

"The feeling is mutual." He bowed his head. "I believe there's nothing else for us to talk about. My sympathies for your family's loss, Hawke; however, the Viscount's office is glad to see you back on the job."As he made to leave, she cleared her throat.

"Bran." The seneschal halted, turning his head to look back over his shoulder at her. "I do not appreciate lewd innuendo about what I'm doing for the sake of this city. You would do well to stop listening to hearsay, and especially to repeat it to my face without considering how I may respond to such commentary. For your own sake. Are we clear?"

He sniggered, but gave a quick nod as he stepped out.

* * *

The Hanged Man – an excellent institution to squander away weeks, months and years, as Isabela specialized in. Or claimed to; even when the swill passing as whiskey made her cheeks flush there was an alertness to her eyes. It wasn't the first time Hawke noted this about the pirate, but there was another streak of anxious eagerness in her movements that most certainly couldn't be attributed to the alcoholic beverages lined up on the table.

Aveline had made a passing remark of it as Isabela had bought them all a round from the bartender, but when Hawke asked if the pirate had actually been questioned on the matter, Aveline simply said 'you know how it goes with her'. The truth with Isabela was always that you could never wring the truth from her, but had to read it between the lines, which left for all too much misinterpretation to even bother.

They were crashing in at the regular table of the mismatch group, Hawke and Aveline nursing the weakest beers they could wring out of the bartender as they kept throwing inconspicuous glances around the large room, only partially paying attention to the wild discussions at the table.

It was the first time since Leandra had died that Hawke had been down at the tavern, and she was relieved that no one was making a fuss of it. Her world was changing fast enough as it was, and she enjoyed the idea that at least some places in the wild city she inhabited were barely affected by the unfolding events outside.

Dog – who was not listening to any of the new names she had tried to give him, whining instead and refusing to move – rested at her feet, completely oblivious to the commotion going on around him. She dipped a hand down to scratch him behind the ear. As much of a trouble as he was with finding a new suitable name that he'd actually adhere to, she brought him along everywhere she went.

"Busy night tonight," Isabela commented, flicking her finger against the cards in her hands. "We could do with one more player, here."

Isabela was playing Diamondback with Varric as they waited for Merrill and Fenris, only casually keeping an eye on the cards, more interested in discussing Aveline's new man.

"So I hear Donnic's quite the skilled swordsman," Isabela said with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows.

"He's proficient in more ways than one," Aveline responded dryly, sizing up a group of new arrivals that poured in through the door. "You're in a good mood today. How's the relic hunt going?"

"What, does my whole life have to revolve around a stupid relic? Can't I simply be in elevated bliss because Fenris knows how to bend a girl over until the stars and the sun look the same?"

"Five cases of public indecency and lewdness, Isabela. You two have been rutting all over town the last week, but that smile you've got is different."

"It's because I've got the winning hand," Isabela said, slamming the cards down. "You're paying my tab this week, Varric."

"Go easy on your liver, Rivaini," the dwarf muttered. "It'd be a shame to see you put out of commission earlier than needed."

Aveline elbowed Hawke so sharply in the side that she coughed, choking on her beer. "There," Aveline hissed, pointing discreetly at a red-faced guardsman talking it up at the bar after Hawke recuperated. "He just bought a round of Starkhaven whiskey. For a guard his rank, he'd have to spend four weeks pay for that."

"Suspicious," Hawke agreed, knocking back the last of her tepid drink before taking her cup for a refill and questioning.

* * *

Her knuckle was still a tad raw inside her gauntlet when she was admitted into the Qunari compound, flexing the fingers gently as she strode across the courtyard to where the Arishok sat on his throne.

The beat-up of the guard had yielded information, but not what she had expected. Templars ordering guards around through waving the seal of the grand cleric of the Chantry in their faces. How far the Qunari dissatisfaction was spread within the city wasn't something Hawke had kept tabs on, particularly after Leandra's passing – but from what she was gathering as she had begun picking up the threads of her former life and tying them into the present and future, things were unravelling fast.

He looked up briefly from a scroll he was reading, maintaining the stony expression of his face – though Hawke saw a glimmer in his eye that made her want to smile. A secret little hint between the two of them, a fleeting speck that reminded her all too keenly of how he could make her feel. "Hawke, I see, come again to serve as a distraction."

"Not quite," she said, quietly pondering how exactly to break the news to him. Blunt seemed to be able to convey the message well enough, she decided, shifting on her feet. "The delegation you sent to the Viscount, they've gone... Missing."

"Hm." A tense moment of silence followed, rolling the scroll up and handing it to an attendant before he rose to his full height. At times, she could forget just how imposing that sight of him could be, especially as he stepped close to her and tilted her face up to search for something in her eyes. She breathed calmly, signalling for Dog at her side to stop growling. Not that she was wholly sure it wasn't a threatening situation, but she rather not have her mabari worsen it.

At long last, he spoke. "None but you could have said those words and be still alive." The grip on her jaw eased up as he let go.

"I'm flattered," she responded, giving the side of her cheek a light prod, trying to ignore the warm feeling blooming from the spot his thumb had rubbed against.

"So you're the one tasked with recovering them then?" She nodded. "Then I will wait to see how you solve this. But know this," he added, voice dropping to utter a dark warning, not only to her but to her employers. "The provocations we have suffered have worked. If this is not resolved, I can fulfil my duty to the Qun with far less annoyance by sifting through rubble."

If that wasn't ominous, Hawke didn't know what was. She opened her mouth to say a parting word when she was cut short.

A sharp pain hit Hawke in her back, and she let out a loud wail as she crumpled against the Arishok's frame. The pain flashed hot and burning, coming in pulses as she was down on her knees, unable to move her arms without upsetting the injury. His strong hands scooped her up without a problem and pressed her face into his chest, carrying her off towards the housing structures of the compound. Twisting her head so that her ear was pressed against his chest, catching on to each rumbling order spoken, she caught glimpses of arrows flying from the Qunari archers on the rooftops and a blur of white-red bodies before shutting her eyes tight.

When she next opened them, she was resting on her side on a cot, her armour swiftly being removed from her torso. Self-consciously, she tried to grasp at the chain mail being pulled from her, but found that her limbs were not responding. "What happened?" she croaked.

"An arrow," the Arishok explained to her, towering above her as she blinked her eyes trying to focus on his face. "The Ashaad are hunting the perpetrator down."

"I can't feel my back," she said, almost apologetically. If there was one thing she didn't like, it was being vulnerable and weak, particularly if it was in front of anyone. Even more so if it was in front of the Arishok.

"Then you will soon," a dispassionate voice came from behind her, cold fingers prodding at the impact site. "For this will not be done gently."

Hawke gritted her teeth, breathing through her nose as she felt the first tendrils of pain, working through the removal of the arrow with a tense jaw and rigid body. As the head of it caught on a nerve, her hands suddenly worked again, and they shot out and grabbed at the Arishok's leg, clinging on to it as she tried to remain conscious.

One of his clawed hands covered hers, resting atop them and emanating a comforting warmth. The touch embarrassed her, and she fixed her eyes on his knee, trying her hardest to not get caught up in the torment the Qunari physician was putting her through.

She tried calling up a fantasy, transporting herself elsewhere, but they were too weak to provide adequate refuge from the insidious pain. For a moment she thought she could grasp onto a different place and time, dreamt up as a sanctuary where the sea-foam left her clothes smelling of salt – only to have it ripped from her with a twist of the arrowhead.

"Soon, soon," the physician said, voice cold and bereft of compassion. "It's relatively shallow, but lodged stuck..."

The arrow came out with a small pop, followed by the warm trickle of blood down her back and the application of rough linen cloth to still the flow. The hands behind helped her up in a sitting position, and she swayed back and forth, dizzy but relatively alright, at least by her measurements.

"Is it done?" she asked, sounding more breathless than she'd like.

"Not quite. Hold her," the physician said to the Arishok, who gripped her arms tightly. Alarmed, she looked up at his face right as fingers dug into the open wound to pick out lingering shrapnel, and she opened her mouth widely in a silent scream, wincing at each squelching noise of something being removed from her. The Arishok's expression was cool and unaffected, although she thought she could discern a streak of... Pride? Or anger? It was all too muddled to make out, pain diffusing her ability to analyse his complex face where the smallest twitch of a muscle was an intense expression of emotion.

When the last, tiny shard was plucked from the wound, she let out a shaky breath and hung her head forward, sweat dripping down from her brow across the tip of her nose. The Arishok let go of her arms, one of his hands gently cupping her chin as he bent over her shoulder to survey the damage, his clawed thumb carefully stroking along her cheekbone.

"Another fine scar," the Arishok commented.

"I seem to have started a collection of them," she replied, feeling needle and thread stitching skin together. Her voice was more raw and cracked at the edges than she would like.

"Each scar we gain is a testament to our growth."

"Unless it's acquired in a bar brawl."

"One would hope you learn not to drink and fight then."

She snorted and then hissed as the wound was roughly tied up. The physician and Arishok exchanged a few words in their language before it was just her and the Arishok. "He says you complain like a fourteen-year-old child," he said with a note of amusement in his voice.

"Give me my hauberk," she said, too exhausted to shoot off a witty reply as she moved her hand towards where it rested at the foot of her cot.

"It would upset the wound."

She was just wearing her breast-band on the upper part of her body, and could only imagine how the back was soaked and discoloured from blood. Still, she closed her hand and sighed, rising to her feet, putting her hand on the Arishok's chest to steady herself. Underneath her palm, she could feel his heart beating, and the vulnerability of it – the steady pulse, so close and insistent – made her smile slightly, despite it all.

Curling her fingers, she traced the war paint pattern of his pectorals, fascinated by the vivid colours and exactness of those fine lines that ignored any swell of muscle. It had to mean something, but she wasn't about to ask, part of her fearing that the explanation was either a dull one or one she simply didn't want to hear.

Hawke withdrew her hand when she heard the door open, turning to face the wall as the Arishok spoke with the Ashaad who had entered while she tried to control the rising desires again. It really was not the time.

Dog came bouncing in, pressing his thick head against her shin before being running off elsewhere in the sprawling compound.

"The assassin is caught," the Arishok explained after the Ashaad finished his report. "Apparently your beast sniffed him out. A local. He is being held outside."

"Let me see him," she demanded.

"Hawke," the Arishok said tersely. "You are not of the Qun, and therefore I am not directly obligated to protect you as if you were one of our own. However, the intended crime happened on our ground. I give you permission to do with the assassin as you see fit."

"I won't disappoint you."

She left with a respectful bow of her head, hurrying out into the evening to confront the one who had tried to kill the Arishok. In her mind, there was no question about it – had the arrow gone through her armour, it would have hit the Arishok's heart, killing him. Mentally, she made a note of praising fine dwarven craftsmanship and Sebastian for gifting her with such expensive luxury... Later. At the moment, her focus was on interrogating the one who had attempted the kill, because she was running out of patience with how people were trying to edge the Qunari into retaliation.

In a distant, poorly lit corner of the courtyard, she saw a lithe form curled up on the ground. Unchained, she noted, but with two guards at his side, spears pointed towards the torso. They stepped aside as Hawke approached, and when the assassin – a dirty, roughed-up elf – looked up, he gave a low grumble.

"You live," the assassin commented dryly.

She crossed her arms, refusing to wince when the closed wound strained on her back. "If you actually were an assassin," she said coolly, "you would have aimed for the neck or eye."

"I'll make sure to remember."

"What's your name?"

He shook his head. "To a Hightown noble, I have none. Why do you pretend to care?"

"I don't. I _do_  make a point of knowing the names of those who would incite war, and someone hired you to do just that. Who wanted you to kill the Arishok?"

"You think too little of yourself, messere Hawke. I wasn't hired for the Arishok's sake," the elf said, running his eyes up and down her body as if assessing how to strike, "I was meant to kill you, and you alone."

A cold feeling of dread ran down her spine. "Excuse me?"

"I got paid for your death." The elf leered up at her, doubtless he had seen how unsettled those words had made her. "Any means necessary."

Having heard enough, she drew her dagger, the glinting blade reflecting the burning torches and casting a warm glow on his face, which now bore an expression of doubt. "Surely you'll have mercy on a wayward soul?"

She shook her head. "Perhaps if I was not bound by duty, I would be a benevolent woman." With a quick movement, she twirled the dagger once on her hands. "Duty, however, forces us to be merciless."

Hawke took the dagger and jammed it through the throat of the assassin, before grabbing on to the hair and severing the head completely from the shoulders. Picking up the head and carrying it dangling limply from her hand, blood splattering in odd bursts, she walked over to the waterfront from which one could overlook all of the Kirkwall harbour. With all the force she could muster, she threw the head out into the dark waters, watching it bob on the waves before disappearing out of sight.


	12. Never Bled for Another

"Rash," the Arishok commented to Hawke as she kneeled by the assassin's body.

"You gave me the option to do as I pleased," she responded, peeling apart the blood-soaked leather armour covering the chest, her hands soaked red and slipping on the fastenings. Hawke was in no mood to argue – she knew what she had done was a foolish thing, but something had snapped in her. All she had done for Kirkwall, and that was how the city chose to repay her? She had to stop herself at that point and take a deep breath, preventing her from running along with that thought – she couldn't question what she was trying to accomplish, not now.

"I assumed you wished to interrogate him." The Arishok did not appear as annoyed as she assumed he would be, instead merely remarking on the thoughtlessness guiding her hand. Part of her agreed, the other part just wanted to not be there at all.

"He had nothing to say. He came to claim a life, failed, and thus his own was forfeit."

"What does this tell you? That the city you have sworn yourself to protect would prefer you dead." He gave the limp, decapitated body a nudge with his booted foot. "That Kirkwall thinks so little of those who give themselves for it."

"It's one person." Backed by an enemy she could not pin down, frustratingly enough. "You could have stopped me."

"It is not my place to discourage you. Not yet, at least."

"Yet you do discourage me from Kirkwall."

"Is that what you chose to call it? It is merely the truth, plain and simple. This city is not worthwhile, neither for you nor me, Hawke."

She felt something dry and scratchy under her fingertips, and carefully fished out a sealed letter and held it up. The Arishok took the letter from her hands, breaking the seal and reading intently as she gave the pockets another pat before rising. "May I?"

With great reluctance he gave it to her, but she could make no sense of the words, written in a language she didn't recognise. She bit into her cheek and handed it back in resignation.

"You do not understand," the Arishok said.

"What does it say?" When he remained silent, she put her bloodied hand on his arm and squeezed. "Tell me."

"That your ignorance may serve you well, for once. It is a warning addressed to me, and that is all you need to know."

She threw her hands up in frustration. "Fine." Turning on her heel, she marched off to where her armour and sword rested, picking up the pieces and surveying the damage. There was a sizeable tear in the back, and stains all around it; it would have to be taken to a blacksmith for mending. After she cleaned away all the blood.

"It would be unwise to let you go." The Arishok did not stir one inch when she spun around and glared at him.

"You're keeping me here tonight?"

"Consider the reality, then decide."

She scowled, knowing he was right. It wasn't what she wanted, but without sufficient protection she knew all too well she was an easy target in case anyone was still after her head – easier, even, considering she had that slight injury.

She ran a hand over her face before remembering what they were covered in."I need to wash this off." Yielding with a sigh, she looked up at him: solemn and imposing as ever. Perhaps more so now than before, and it sent a shudder down her spine.

* * *

Hawke sat perched on the edge of the bathtub, her legs covered half-way up the thighs as she dipped the rag into the steaming water and wrung it out, then put it to her skin and rubbed in slow circles to remove the smattering of blood. It was dried into the fine hairs of her arm, and she took great care to remove every last speck before drenching the rag when it gained a rusty colour. The water of the tub took on a copper hue as time went on.

She was exhausted, but fully awake, thoughts keeping her mind on alert, going over what the day had brought her. The elements of unrest were not the worst, but the fact that there was a whole different level of dangers at work in Kirkwall, one that was not as easy to discern and with unclear motives. The pieces of the puzzle seemed random, but she was certain she was overlooking something right in front of her nose. Things had a way of being more connected than what the surface would convey.

Above all, she wasn't sure what to make of it that she was in the Arishok's bathroom, naked and with skin rubbed red and raw, hearing him move about in the adjacent room without any words spoken between them since he showed her in.

The bathroom was partitioned off from the bedchamber by a mere scrap of thick canvas cloth torn from useless sails. The fabric rustled on its hangers, announcing him wordlessly. She listened to his steps as they approached the tub, crossing one leg over the other.

"It strikes me," she began, "that I have not shown the appropriate gratitude. For your hospitality."

"You are welcome here. For the time being." The Arishok took the cloth from her hands, dragging it across her raw shoulder-blades a bit too harshly. She winced and he stilled, then began again, gentler. "Do you ever tire of these charades?"

"All the time." She twisted her head to look at him over her shoulder. "But it's... Necessary."

"The masks we cover ourselves up with are convenient, indeed."

"What would you rather have me do? Start an outright war?" He made a noise that sounded like a chuckle.

"Tempting, but no. The time will come soon enough."

There was a shift in his voice that made Hawke turn, arms folded across her chest to cover herself up. "Something on your mind?"

"When I found you pleasuring yourself out on the coast, you seemed to be dreaming."

She gave a short, nervous laugh. "One could say that, yes."

"Of what?"

She turned her face away sharply, focusing on the cracks running along the bare wall. She weighed the truth, and then let go. "You."

The Arishok squeezed out the rag and put it down, his thumb brushing against her chin so suddenly that she jumped.

"I am trying to understand you, Hawke. You are basalit-an, a foreign and dangerous thing, but one to be respected. That which kills others only serves to harden you. I find myself fascinated." The pad of his thumb brushed over her lips. Parting, she bit gently into the soft, salty flesh, tongue pressing against the nearly imperceptible pink marks she left. "The expression on your face that time, it has haunted me. I think of it even when I would rather not."

She shamelessly pressed her cheek against his open palm, thrilled at the contact of skin against skin. His skin. "Do you think it's any different for me?"

As he withdrew his hand, one claw scratched at her skin, the cut causing a swollen, stinging welt. "There is a question that hangs between us. We both know it, but do not utter it. I know what holds me back, but what is it that stops you?"

"I'm not a fearless person."

"Fearlessness is dangerous, and so is recklessness: both traits you possess."

Eyes downcast, she brushed one lock of hair behind her ear. "I fear loss."

"Such a contradiction," he mused, mouth by her ear, his voice a mere whisper. "You say one thing, yet are another." His hand slipped between her thighs, spreading them so suddenly that water splashed over the edge of the tub. Hawke's lips parted, letting out a low whine – the touch too close and too much, and yet exactly all the things she had yearned for. The Arishok brushed against the soft skin on the inside of her thigh with his clawed hands, each scratching sting followed up by the warm, wet palm.

"I know of Qunari customs," she said, feeling his hand move further up from her knee.

"You have heard of them, spoken by those who have not understood it. I would hardly call that knowing." Taking great care to not scratch her skin with his claws, he ran a knuckle along her slit. She inhaled sharply, pressing her legs together to still his movement.

"Arishok," she began, voice reduced to a quiet whisper, "unless willing to follow through on the consequences, please, don't tease me."

He gave a low snort. "Then what is it you want?"

She closed her eyes, tongue darting out to wet her lips. The pad of his thumb gave a nudge against her sex, and she bucked into it, the moan she let out close to a whimper. "That you even ask... Is it not obvious?"

"That it is." The pressure of his knuckle eased and his hand withdrew, the Arishok leaving her alone in the bath.

Sighing, a tremble passed from her spine out into the rest of her body. While she hoped, she also dreaded that she had misinterpreted his intentions, aware of only one truth in their tentative relationship: that every moment with him, she fell further and harder.

Hawke rose from the tub, kicking the drain valve and patting herself dry before wrapping the towel around her body, annoyed that she had nothing else to wear that wasn't soaked with blood. Too naked and too vulnerable, she moved into his chambers, tugging at the slip of fabric to stay in place and cover her.

The Arishok was stood by an empty table, his back turned on her. She watched him from the threshold as he removed the dark red shoulder-pads, the bracers, followed by the wide sash and thick golden jewellery, each step done without hurry and each thing placed neatly on the table in front of him. When he was down to his pants, she forced herself to clear her throat.

"Arishok."

He nodded without turning. "Hawke."

A silence descended, and she padded across the floor to stand by his side: his hands were flat on the table, the palms pressing into the surface as he leaned forward heavily, the tendons at his neck protruding with each shallow breath.

"Do you fear me?"

"Fear..." He seemed to mull it over, then looked at her, expression gentle. "There are no reasons to fear you. Not tonight, at least. Perhaps you will astound me yet."

"I think I have exhausted all the surprises I had in store." She bit into her lower lip, admonishing herself for being so childishly nervous. The Arishok caught on, walking over to the table in the room and raised a slender carafe.

"I do not know the specific customary rites you would indulge in at this point. Would a drink be acceptable?"

She took a seat at the table, watching as he poured them two glasses and then settled down next to her, turned to face her. She took the heavy goblet with one hand, swivelling it around without tasting before putting it back down.

"Why?" Hawke asked, pursing her lips.

The Arishok studied the contents of his glass. "Did you forget the actual question?"

"Why would you do this?"

"I have stayed my hand for many long years, remembering what the Arigena spoke as I departed Par Vollen:  _razed land is land unconquerable_. Words, however, make a poor salve when such corruption is allowed to continue in front of my very eyes."

"We're talking politics again."

"It is important that you understand this, Hawke. Else, this communication between us will only be a misunderstanding, and clarity is what I have always valued in you. Yet you are intricately bound, by your own will now, to Kirkwall: this horror of a city. The future is uncertain here, and tomorrow will most likely drive that point further. With you, however, I know what awaits me." He paused, his dark eyes nearly indiscernible in the flickering candlelight. "It is a fate I have accepted. You are a corruption, and a struggle in yourself."

"If I am corrupting, why bother with me?"

"Still you do not understand, not fully. I am the Arishok. It is my life to engage in the struggle itself, to test myself against it and find glory."

"I'm a test." She shook her head, small smile playing on her lips. They were such an odd pair, and if he needed ideology to justify it, who was she to complain? All she felt was an intense desire she desperately needed sated, she didn't exactly have a higher ground than him.

"This language we speak with each other, it has no adequate words for what you are to me. There are words in my tongue that cannot be translated, the meaning lost simply because there are no equal terms. It is inexpressible what you are, exactly, but know that it transcends a simple definition."

"Back at you."

He emptied his glass in one long gulp as she rose. "What now? Will you stay, or will you go?"

"Would you even let me leave?"

"Your determination would make me think twice before trying to stop you."

Hawke laughed, running a hand over her face. "Look at us, talking in circles again. You were the one who wanted to cease all pretence," she explained as she pushed the chair back and got up, shrugging off the towel. It dropped to the floor, pooling around her feet.

She caught his hand where it rested on his knee, taking it between her two smaller hands, noting how much warmer he was. As she brought it up to her mouth, she kissed his palm gently, never once breaking eye-contact.

"This will end tonight." His strained voice caught her off-guard, and she tilted her head. "What is between us in an entertaining divergence, but we risk forgetting our duty. I offer you the solution so that we may both move onwards, cleansed of these thoughts."

"Am I such a taint upon your mind that you must purge me?"

"Hawke..." The way he spoke her voice was a clear threat, the frustrated growl silenced only when she nodded in consent.

"Very well." Not that she was fully sure it was what was she wanted in the long run, but the opportunity in front of her was too precious to let slip away. If it was how the Arishok wanted it to be, then she would let him have it. Maker knew she wanted it too. "Tonight, and tonight alone."

"Then we are in accord."

She gave a tug on his arm to get him standing up, and began working on the lacing at his groin, taking time out from undressing him to stroke the erection through the taut fabric. She kept her eyes on his face, amusedly noting the small twitches in his eyebrows when she cupped his cock, giving it a light squeeze; his breathing became deeper when she freed it completely, the full impressive length poking against her stomach.

Hawke pushed him up to the edge of the bed, giving his chest a forceful shove so he was seated on the mattress. With one leg planted on each side of his knees, she paused, studying the pained expression on his face as he shifted himself upwards on the mattress into a more comfortable position for him.

"We can forget this, if you wish."

"No," he said decisively, voice hoarse, one arm hooked around her waist as he pulled her down into his lap.

"You don't look like you're enjoying it."

"It's merely an old war wound," he murmured against her lips, before she silenced them both through kissing him, her tongue slipping into his mouth. He tasted of the fragrant wine, spices and scents she could not name as she deepened the kiss, the coarse texture of his broad tongue a welcome sensation to experience again.

One of his hands found its way between them, calloused fingers teasing out moans as he lingered at the apex of her thigh. He was brusque, but knowing, attentive to each noise passed from her lips to his, quickly finding the sensitive nub and circling it with sure movements. After so many nights longing for it, Hawke was overwhelmed that it was happening, that she was straddling him and strung between his mouth and hands, tense and on the verge of shattering into mindless ecstasy. Unsure how much longer she would last, she pulled his hand away by the wrist and broke the kiss, breathless and flustered.

"Is it not satisfactory?" he asked.

Her voice was too thick, and she had to swallow to be able to speak. "It's good. Very good." She flashed him an unsteady smile as her hand grasped his cock, and she had to bite her tongue to not comment on it.

Perhaps out of hopeful ignorance, she hadn't paid much attention to the actual size of his manhood, but now that one hand circled around it, she couldn't help feeling a worried clench in the gut. Both girth and length were far beyond anything she had experienced before, and she quietly cursed her naivete.

Adjusting her position, she guided the tip to her entrance, relaxing herself as much as possible when it pushed past her folds and against her opening. It stung, a burning pain that flashed through her and then gave way as the head entered fully. Taking a hold of his horns, she lowered herself onto his rigid cock, controlling the pace. His size was difficult to accommodate, taking its time, and she worried that he would tire and push her down. She jumped when his hands came to rest at her hips, jerking at his horns: he gave out a low snarl, hands resting under her quivering thighs to offer support.

With shoulders squared, she slid down the final inch, giving out a shaky moan as she took all of him in. Taking a moment to adjust to being so full and stretched, she noted that both of them were covered in a sheen of glistening sweat, breathing deeply through their noses. His eyes were shut, the heavy lids creased over the dark irises. It was peculiarly peaceful for being him, to see him lost to a sensation: to see him not fully in charge.

She felt his muscles tense, as if preparing to move, and she pulled herself up using his horns as leverage, unwilling to rescind a single ounce of control to him. All he did was grunt, allowing it, hands squeezing at her hips as she moved herself up. She pressed a kiss to his left eyelid at the height of her rise, his eyelashes tickling her lips before she slammed herself down, both of them rocking against each other as she did.

As they progressed, she took him with a grim roughness, determined to imprint it with a delicious mix of heady pain and intoxicating pleasure, and he seemed to be of the same mind. Each bite she gave his jaw he gave back, each pull on his horns met with a new scratch on her skin.

Hawke, having always found a particular addiction to the right amount of pain administered by the right person, found herself shaking from ache and excitement, one fuelling the other, creating an intense duet that had her back arching and hands gripping on for dear life.

Then the rage in them abated, and she pressed her forehead against his neck, lips trailing along the tense tendons as she ground down in his lap. His palms smoothed over the raw marks he'd left upon her, brushing away the stray hairs clinging to sweaty skin and murmuring words in the Qunari tongue. Despite not knowing what he was saying, she found herself comforted by them, by the way his voice stroked against her insides and swept away all the anger and desperation, leaving only a warmth, only him...

Hawke's first orgasm surprised her: it came without warning, and it was so soft and gentle that she was left smiling, exhaling a shaky laugh against his collarbone. She felt lighter, the sudden burst of muted pleasure easing a strain that she had only guessed at.

Her hands let go of his horns and slid down to his chest, fingers tracing the defined muscles as she struggled to catch her breath. Suddenly, her hands were snatched up by his, and he pinned her wrists to the small of her back with one while the other cradled her head, tugging at the hair so that she met his eyes.

The darkness she was met with made Hawke shudder. There was unbridled lust and a deeper passion, an intensity that made her feel out of her depth. They both stilled, a moment of ragged panting and wide-eyed realisation at what they saw in the other. The moment was horrifying, lasting until her eyelids fluttered shut and she flexed her thighs, stimulating herself with an abrupt bucking downwards.

Even as she was in the act, she knew she would not be able to end it there, the feelings for him insatiable, the needs demanding that she stay with him, and she found herself already yearning for a next time. "I'm sorry," she said, only gaining a frustrated grunt in response.

He began a brutal rhythm of thrusting, mouth latching onto her collarbone and teeth breaking the skin there, eliciting a pained hiss which was swiftly followed by a moan before she bit down in her lower lip. Wrenching one arm free, she flung it over his shoulder and around the back of his neck, one fist in his hair to steady herself as she began trembling from the climax drawing nearer.

She came with a wail choked into his neck, eyes tearing from the sheer force of it, too many pent-up lusts finding a release that wracked through her entire body, leaving her gasping for air and shuddering in his arms. His release followed quickly, body stiffening up around her, claws breaking her skin as he held her still, seed spilling deep in her: the sensation of being crushed in a vice came close in her dazed mind, his arms squeezing her tight and then slackening when her breathing grew faint. He lifted her sore, battered body up, and she protested weakly with a few incoherent noises, disappointed at having his member slip out of her.

Instead of putting her on the bed as she had expected, he let her sit on his lap as they both recovered, their mixed juices dripping out of her and onto his legs. She ached in so many ways: with the throbbing wound, a pounding headache, mouth dry and most of all, the emptiness of her sex.

Words – incredibly stupid and feeble ones – lay on her tongue, but she was unwilling to speak them. What excuse could she offer? She knew what ailed her in regards to him, but there was no point speaking of it. Nothing could be done.

The Arishok sighed, his chin resting on the top of her head. "Your wound has re-opened," he said flatly, and she felt the tiny trickle of hot blood.

"It doesn't hurt," she murmured, eyes closed as she buried her nose in his neck, drawing in the powerful scent of musk and mingled sweat.

* * *

Hawke awoke to an empty bedroom in the small hours of the morning, a tender soreness rendering movement difficult until she regained full consciousness. She ran a hand over the unoccupied side of the massive bed, the sheets cool to the touch. The Arishok must have left shortly after she drifted off to sleep in his arms – she could not pinpoint the exact moment when she had succumbed to the exhaustion, much to her annoyance; just that it had been in his embrace, the warmth of which she now yearned for.

Pushing the heavy and all too thick coverlet away from her body she got up, noticing that her gear lay on the table. Upon closer inspection she noted that it held a new lustre, the metal polished and rid of all stains. Pulling the sword out of its scabbard, she saw that even the blade held a muted shine to it. With stiff movements, she dressed, trying not to over-think it, actively attempting to stay in the present, mind entirely focused on each buckle and hook.

She drank from the glass still in the same place as it had been in the evening, the wine stale and flat; nonetheless she gulped it down greedily. Thirst quenched, she decided it was enough stalling. She cast one final glance at the writing desk, a thought passing that perhaps she should leave a note, but decided against it.

The courtyard was deserted, shrouded in a thick morning mist. An eager Dog sprang from one corner and jumped about her legs, butting his head eagerly against her shins as he urged her onward, wishing to go for a morning run.

For a moment, the mists parted and she saw the Arishok on the other side of the compound, slicing through the cold air with a training sword in each hand as he moved in a well-disciplined rhythm, striking with precision. He didn't look at her, completely absorbed by his exercise with a grim determination, muscles rippling at each movement.

Hawke had never found him to be as beautiful and sad to behold as then.


	13. Riding Up The Heights of Shame

Ever since Petrice's lips curled up into a small but unmistakable smile while she descended the stairs of the Chantry to answer Hawke's allegations, the warrior had known she would come to regret the day. The headache was a small string pulling itself taunt between her temples, strumming up to a discordant and insistently disgraceful noise that hammered away, exacerbated by the relentless sunshine.

The whole day seemed years removed from the night prior, yet it hung fresh in her mind, a bittersweet solace to turn to. As precious as it was, there was a cruel sting to it, and she was torn between indulging and fleeing in equal measures, both from reality and the memory itself. Sebastian and Aveline were vocal about what they thought of Hawke dragging them along to throw such 'infectious claims', but she couldn't care less, insistent on diving headfirst into it all. She had enough of the truth hiding just out of reach, taunting constantly: she was done with lies and deceit.

Of course, what met her down the covered, warm alley where ser Varnell was holding his anti-Qunari meeting was everything she wished it hadn't been. The Qunari diplomats, tied and disarmed as they were, were in no position to fight back. She thought she recognized one of them – a Karasten – but the moment passed when a man moved into her line of sight. Pulling the hood down further, she elbowed her way to the front of the gathered crowd when a hand closed around her arm.

There was the recognisable flash of smile and the cold blue eyes before Petrice's voice cut off Varnell's maddened ramblings about  _removing fangs_  and  _showing the beasts for what they truly were_. There was nothing reassuring about Petrice's bony fingers digging into Hawke's arm, nor the smile, which was all kinds of unnerving.

"How dare you, ser Varnell?" Petrice demanded, immediately demanding the attention of everyone assembled.

"And here comes the promised Chantry blessing," Varnell said, turning his head to sneer at the Qunari. "Your Qun matters for nothing when doused in the Maker's light."

"You would dare to presume that the Chantry blesses you when you use the Grand Cleric's seal so openly?" Petrice, clearly getting into the heat of it, pulled back Hawke's hood – there was an audible gasp come from the parting crowd backing away from the two of them.

Hawke found the attention uncomfortable, especially when she noted the sound of Sebastian's bowstring tensing further back. Her own hands twitched to grasp the hilt of her sword.

"The Qunari aren't without their allies, Varnell. Serah Hawke numbers among them, and now you have incurred her wrath."

All that happened after that came all in a blur – a flash of knife in Varnell's hand before he sliced open the throat of one of the Qunari delegates, Hawke cutting off the sudden arm trying to knock the sword out of her hands; the cobblestones of the alley colouring with steaming blood, and Aveline catching Hawke when she slipped on the wet stones as the last fanatic fell down.

The only sound then was the loud breath of her and the companions as they surveyed the scene. Petrice was gone, but everyone else lay dead, riddled with arrows or sliced to pieces – Aveline had even bashed a few heads flat with her shield. It was a mess, indeed.

"This is a disaster," Hawke said, feeling the disgusting sensation of despair rising up, knotting itself tightly in her chest.

A gurgled noise came from one of the Qunari, still tied up. His throat had been cut, slowly bleeding out, the red blood covering the front of his body, the limbs limp in the chains even as his jaw struggled to form a word. He only managed to cough as Hawke approached, blood splattering on her face. His eyes were already covered in an obscuring sheen, but they followed her movements, pleading silently.

"I should have been faster," she apologized, voice tinged with regret as she took her sword to end his misery.

Silence fell as his head lolled forward, and Hawke looked from Fenris to Sebastian to Aveline, all three of them merely standing there. Resisting the urge to call them useless, she sucked on her teeth, feeling the heightened throbbing pulse of blood that refused to calm down.

"This is a disaster," she repeated, this time through gritted teeth, and Aveline caught on to the threat lingering on the tip of Hawke's tongue.

Shaking her head, Aveline gave Hawke's upper arm a friendly firm squeeze before taking Sebastian by the collar, yanking at it to interrupt his quiet prayer over the dead.

"I'll go inform the Viscount," she offered, dragging the archer along. Their low voices were heard, edge against edge, annoyance with religious piousness, before the churn of the foundries drowned them out.

When they were gone, Hawke closed her eyes and tried to breathe: slowly in and out, anything to stop the incessant stream of thoughts rushing through her mind. Between the fearful distress at the situation having slipped out of hand –  _again_  – and the smell of dead bodies which was growing disturbingly familiar, she kept thinking of the Arishok. That the failure felt like a personal and direct failure towards him.

That she owed him much more than she could ever give; or that, in a perverse romantic way, she wanted to do good for him and him alone.

It was all too much and she let out a scream, the simmering frustration bubbling over as she punched the wall, feeling her knuckles squished against the heavy gauntlet on her hand. For a brief moment, all parted and left was only the pain, clear and hot, shooting through her bones and offering her a relaxing silence as she hissed and rubbed over the knuckles.

Remembering that she was not alone, a flush rose on her cheeks. "Sorry about that," she muttered, glancing at Fenris temporarily, then returning to massaging her sore hand. "Just... A bad night."

"Is it true?" Fenris asked gently.

"Is what true?"

There was a hesitant pause before he continued. "This is not my place, not anymore." He grunted in discomfort and annoyance as he shuffled in front of Hawke. "But I'm concerned about your involvement with the Qunari."

"Gossip," she replied instinctively.

Fenris scowled. "Do you think me a simple-minded fool? I can see the way you walk. I know you spent the night at the compound. I recognize that smear of war paint peeking out under your collar. Most of all, Hawke, I know  _you_."

"Do you?" she asked softly, not to incite, but truly wondering herself. "I haven't been spending much time with anyone as of late, and things have been tumultuous. At times, I'm not certain..."

"That you're doing the right thing?" he guessed.

"Maybe."

"You sound like you are in dire need of some wine." His lopsided grin reminded her of all the nights they used to spend together, drinking and talking without actually breaching any difficult topic, and how it'd been so pleasant. Indeed, in some ways she did miss it, but wine alone wasn't going to make all the problems go away.

"No, I need a damn holiday," Hawke said, sighing as she rolled her head from side to side and went to sit down at some steps by a boarded-up door. "I tire of this."

"We haven't spoken in a while, it's true. Perhaps you are in the wrong. Most likely not, but surprises are part of our lives, aren't they? Nonetheless, know that I consider myself a friend of yours, and I will stay at your side as long as you will have me."

She gave him a small, exhausted smile, then sighed and buried her face in her hands, counting her own breaths as she waited. The Viscount did not take long, arriving with a guard detachment that crowded up the large alley, cutting off any stray by-passer's curious glance.

Dumar's anguish only worsened the situation – he didn't want to believe that the Chantry were getting involved, and Hawke looked only at the dusty hem of his black robes as he spoke, trying not to take any of his words to heart.  _It was just a job_. Like anything else. She did what she was asked to do, sometimes the outcome was as expected and most of the time it wasn't, and she got paid: that was a decent life.

So why did she want more?

All of a sudden it was quiet, the Viscount gone. The bodies still lay on the ground, a few guards moving the human corpses away from the Qunari that remained where they had fallen. Fenris pulling at something under one of their bodies.

"Here," Fenris said as he succeeded, holding out one of the Qunari's swords to her. "It's a Qunari belief: the soul resides in the weapon, and the body means nothing. The Arishok would be more upset if you lost these than the bodies."

* * *

The Qunari swords were heavy to carry, and she struggled to keep them all in check as she stepped into the compound. Each one of her muscles was straining and screaming, sweat dripping down into her eyes from the walk and the harsh sun that only kept climbing higher and higher in the sky, spreading its overheated light and reducing all trace of shade. By the time she'd made it past the gate with a terse nod without eye contact, she was groaning under the burden.

It took her a few steps to realize that she was the only one making a sound as she crossed the packed dirt – everything had dropped dead quiet and dozens of eyes were regarding her. The courtyard was a frozen scene as the Qunari around watched, a tension strung in the air as the muscles at their throats twitched in anticipation of her next move.

Then she heard the Arishok's deep, booming voice. "Taarbas!" he called, and a pair of dark hands took the swords from her arms. She relinquished them willingly, releasing a heavy sigh when he backed away. The tension in the air still remained, but now at least she could see the Arishok.

Though the mere sight of him caused a a flutter in her throat, a harsh reminder of all that better left buried. She bowed her head, swallowing nervously as she met his dark, angry eyes.

"You come carrying the swords of those lost," he said, upper lip twitching to reveal his sharp teeth between each syllable, "and they lie dead, in an alley of this city. Why?"

"It's my fault," she blurted, and immediately regretted it when the Arishok rose from his seat, the men at his side aiming their spears at her.

His snarl was vicious as he appeared in front of her in the blink of an eye, his hand closing around her throat. "You? Of all people, you would do this to us?"

Hands scratching at his fingers to peel them away and allow her a chance of breathing, she felt only how he pushed down harder, until she was properly choking, unable to breathe at all. With an aimed kick at his shin, she snapped him out of it, and managed to draw in enough air to speak. "I should have been faster, he cut their throats before I–"

"So it was not you." He grunted and released her, watching detachedly as she massaged her throat. "Do not take responsibility that isn't yours to take, Hawke. Your apologies will not excuse the sickness of Kirkwall." With a gesture, he had the other Qunari standing down, weapons slowly lowering. "Who, then?"

"Chantry zealots," she coughed, wheezing before she could speak again, "preaching their hate against you."

He seemed to mull it over, then began walking, motioning for her to follow. She walked a few paces behind him, hesitation in each step – especially when he led her towards his private quarters. It was then she felt that she should turn around and run away, but he held out his hand, waiting for hers. That was an invitation hard to deny. Even through the gauntlet she felt his rough, warm skin, and before she could stop it she'd let out a needy gasp.

"It does not matter," he commented, allowing her into his room first. "You are lost to it."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's evident, written all over you." He closed the door, crossing his arms across his chest as he regarded her.

"I came here to talk about a different matter–"

"And so we have. Your explanation of the events is sufficient, and I accept it. However, this is what I wish to discuss."

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. "We said that it would just be last night."

"We say, and yet our actions speak larger than the feeble words spilling from our lips, so easily misinterpreted."

His next movement brought them closer together, and Hawke instinctively side-stepped him but found him following.

"Stop it," she pleaded in a low voice, struggling against the urge to tackle him to the floor and ride him until the city dissolved around them.

"A fool would say that you have enchanted me with a spell of desire, but I know that is too simple an accusation, shifting the blame from me to you. No, the issue lies with me. That I cannot free my mind of your presence."

"What are you saying?"

He tipped her chin back, hot breath spilling over her forehead and ruffling her dark hair as he spoke. "The corruption lies in me, and stems from me. My own weaknesses. My own... Lusts."

"You're no better than me."

The Arishok slammed her up against the wall, one of his huge hands holding hers above her head. She arched her back at the impact, pain shooting through her spine. "Tell me what you think," he demanded, his nostrils flaring.

"About what?" she grunted.

"All this violence, this blood-shed and death. The chaos that erupts from you and I."

With a sharp jerk she freed her hands and held on to the leather straps across his chest, fingers plucking at the buckles. "It is what it is."

"You like it," he said darkly, accusingly.

Despite the tongue wetting her lips, she found no words to respond with. One of his knees found its way between her thighs, inching slowly upwards until she was standing on her toes, struggling for balance. All the while, his eyes were on her, studying each nervous twitch of facial muscles until she snaked her hand up to his neck and attempted to tug him down closer for a meeting of the lips.

It was all instinct from that point onwards.

The Arishok moved with such fluid speed that she was dazed, only grasping a sense of the situation when he had her hoisted up on the writing desk, pieces of her armour scattered between the door and there. Her own hands immediately went to undo the laces of her pants as he smoothly removed his own layers, and her heart fluttered in her throat as she saw his naked, muscled legs.

Planting her heels on the smooth surface, she slid forward and motioned with one finger for him to come closer, a brazen and shameless gesture. His hands were on her knees, squeezing and moving upwards, spreading her legs further apart until the thighs were shaking. All of Hawke was quivering with anticipation, with the poorly restrained longing to memorize his body in any way she could.

Yet he stood there, not moving, not touching her anywhere but his hands on her hips, thumbs rubbing deep circles.

"Was once not enough?" he asked.

"No," she said, speaking the truth. "I... Want you."  _And so much more than just want_ , she added quietly.

He kissed her too gently, and she caught his white hair and yanked at it, demanding more, her teeth sinking into his lips until he pushed his tongue against hers. She moaned into his mouth, each exhale a soft sound of pleasure and desire as one hand grasped at his cock, running a thumb down the rigid length. It drew a moan from him, a sound that caused her to pause and draw a trembling breath, eyes wide.

Breaking the kiss, he unceremoniously flipped her over onto her stomach and entered her in one hard thrust from behind. The angle of penetration was so deep and the intrusion so sudden, that Hawke stifled a scream into her hand as he pushed her flat against the surface of the desk. Paper was sticking to her, the sweat smearing the ink and the ink staining her skin, but there was little she could do about it. His massive hands had hers pinned, and all she could do was buck and twist, which was met with his sharp teeth grazing the sore skin of her shoulder.

The pain was as the pain he could give her was: tinged with the sweetness of pleasure, pushing it beyond being felt and simply being experienced. Beyond the pain lay a different sensation, a white and hot overwhelming wave coursing through her as she bit back gasps and moans, trying to keep quiet despite how she had no control.

She came, tossing her head as she writhed and trembled, crushed by him into the desk until she could barely breathe. For a short moment, she could do nothing but lie there, drawing in shallow mouthfuls of air as the room around her ceased the wild spinning.

It was when she could feel her body again – bruised and used and aching in all the right ways – that she felt his tongue on her back. The tip was circling the ragged edges of her wound before moving upwards, turning her slightly as he touched the cross-shaped scar he had inflicted. His tongue followed the contours of it, tracing and measuring, and in contrast to his earlier ministrations it was gentle and soft. Sometimes he would stop, his nose nudging away some hairs or his thumb pressing against a certain point, and all of it done with equal tenderness.

Without consciously noticing, one of her hands had slid down and between her legs, rubbing in languorous circles as she lay on her side with him hoovering above. His erection was pressing against her without entering, and she sighed contentedly, eyes fluttering open only when his tongue withdrew.

At once he had her hands caught, holding them one on each side as he pushed into her, and she watched the constant snarl gracing his face, his sharp white teeth bared as he slammed into her with a force that had the wood creaking. The intensity of his rage seemed endless, and she shivered, uncertain why.

Dimly, she thought that it was all twisted out of proportion, whatever it was that they had – and then, equally dimly, she wondered what would qualify as appropriate proportions of the two of them crossing paths.

He came in her, pushing deep as he spilled himself in her. For a moment he bent his head and rested his forehead against her chest, and she ran a trembling, weak hand through the small space between his horns, touching the soft silver hair. Fingers tangling in it, she put the other on his cheek, holding him there as his chin dug painfully into her breast.

There was a knock at the door and the Arishok turned towards it, still with his head on her, the side of his horn pressing into her breast. He raised his voice and there was the authoritative tone she was used to, speaking a command in his language which she could not understand. The vibrations rumbled against her ribcage, and she fisted her hand in his hair when she realized he was about to leave her. It was greedy, but she was hungry, constantly yearning for more of him, left wanting no matter how he took or held her.

When he began to dress she closed her eyes, still on the desk, listening to the rustle of clothing as he shrugged off what they had done. The guilt, which had been seeded long ago in her fantasies of him, now blossomed full-force, resting heavy in her gut as she gritted her teeth, determined to fight against it.

The battle was lost, of course, but a fight was a fight, however poorly chosen.

Eventually Hawke sat up and slid off the desk, sore and battered, and bent to pick up her clothes. They dressed in silence, neither looking directly at the other, when he suddenly froze. She dared a glance and followed his gaze, landing at the edge the desk where there was a small smear – her arousal mixed with his semen – and they were both transfixed by it, watching as it began to dry, leaving a white stain on the polished wood.

For a moment she thought she ought to wipe it off, but couldn't find it within her to do so. Another voice appeared at the door, and the Arishok barked a short reply, waiting a moment as the steps disappeared before he left her alone.

When the door slammed shut she let out a gasp, chest heaving as she struggled to quickly get on the chain-mail and plate, eyes roving over the room to find something – anything – else to look at when she caught sight of the letter that had been on the assassin. The documents had scattered and revealed it where it had lay tucked away and hidden, intact and untouched by their activities.

Without hesitation, she grabbed it and left in a hurry.

* * *

The letter remained forgotten, folded into a small bag at her waist as she left the compound and hurried towards Fenris' mansion to take him up on his offer of some wine and friendship. Hawke found him alone, and they uncorked a bottle of wine and climbed up on the rooftop from which they had an unhindered view of Kirkwall. The city lay spread out beneath them, the lights in windows and lanterns coming and going as the hours shifted; the smoke billowing from the foundry area kept the stars partially out of sight, though now and then a gust of wind that found its way past the steep cliffs swept the sky clear.

Ignoring the fact that she still reeked of sex and sweat and death, Fenris didn't once push for her to tell him something she wasn't divulging of her own inclination, and she treated him likewise: it was as much a free a night as a guarded one, save the odd slip now and then. A stray mention, a sentence or a smile, followed by an awkward silence before the other picked out a new topic to move on to.

Then, when they ran out of light-hearted things to talk about, Hawke leaned back on her elbows and sighed. She felt unburdened for the first time in weeks, and she turned her head sharply to look at Fenris, smiling broadly. "How did we ever work as a... Whatever we were?"

Fenris choked on the wine, but quickly wiped his mouth clean before the bottle was snatched from his hand by Hawke. "We  _were_."

"I mean, we never really... We were miles apart."

He made a small noise, his long fringe falling down to obscure the view she had of his face. "I hear you."

"Do you feel like that with Isabela?"

"That's a bit personal, isn't it?" he snapped.

"It is," she admitted, craning her head back to trace the dark ivy hanging above them with her eyes. "You didn't come to the funeral," Hawke said, looking at the back of his head briefly before returning to studying the plants above.

"I felt... Misplaced. What condolences I have will forever be insufficient. There are no adequate words."

"It doesn't matter to me. I thought... I don't know what I thought."

"You want my words? You truly do?" He chortled. "Fine. I'm sorry, Hawke, but loss... It is not something we recover from in a turn of the hand. It's insidious, because we echo with the emptiness it leaves behind."

"Please, Fenris..."

"We hurt, and we search for ways to ease that horrendous feeling. Years pass, and the pangs remain. The scars still burn with the same pain that inflicted them." They were silent for a while before he spoke up again. "There is a difference with Isabela, yes. A warmth."

She sighed and shoved her hand into her satchel like she normally did, digging around for something to toy with. Her fingers found the letter instead, and she fished it out. The language was unrecognisable to her eyes, even going so far as to bleed together slightly unless she narrowed them and focused very hard.

"You said earlier you're starting to lose grip of who you are. Do you still think like that?"

"Does it matter?"

Fenris smiled. "No. You know very well who you are, Hawke, even if you sometimes disappear into your own dreams and lose sight of the matter at hand. We never truly forget who we are, we just lose ourselves momentarily. Or so I'd like to believe. That one day, I'll know my past, and..." He made a vague gesture with his hand, reaching up and towards a distant blinking star, fingers spreading out before closing again around the neck of the bottle. "Your dreams are infectious."

She smiled to herself, folding and unfolding the piece of paper that was the letter. Fenris frowned as he caught sight of it, snatching it out of her hands. The frown deepened further as he turned the letter around, upper lip pulled up to reveal his teeth.

"I recognize the writing, though I cannot read it." He grimaced, handing it back to her. "Arcanum."

"Oh, that means we have Tevinter mages involved in this mess. Wonderful."

"It's not entirely impossible."

They continued to drink in silence, the night soured by the possibility of what awaited them come morning – because both of them knew that Hawke would not rest until she traced the letter to its source.

Then she rubbed at her temple, laughing, too tired of keeping secrets to care anymore. "It's the Arishok," she said, and the revelation hung in the air between them, but then they both grinned like the drunken idiots they were in that moment.

Fenris made a guttural noise. "You  _are_  in trouble, friend."

"Tell me about it." She tossed her head back, shaking the last sluggish drops of the wine onto her tongue. Below, the lights in the windows were put out, one by one, a deeper darkness unfurling across Kirkwall's cliffs.


	14. Found and Lost

After the terrible crawl – more like stumble and fall – down the steps into Darktown, Hawke found Anders in a foul mood which was further worsened when she set foot in his clinic. He only gave her a glance before pointing her to sit and wait by one of the large windows overlooking the inlet to Kirkwall's harbour. The mage knew all too well the signs of Hawke's hangovers, and she was too exhausted to argue that she was there on a different business matter, settling down on the hard cold stone, one leg dangling over the edge.

In the dark water below, scented with tar and dead fish entrails, the seagulls cawed in a cacophony that only worsened her headache. For a few minutes she forced herself to keep awake, watching the vessels come and go, the massive black chains creaking threateningly in the strong wind. Once, she had ventured to ask around the Hanged Man if those chains had ever fallen and crushed a ship – the general consensus seemed to be that if one chain fell, the whole of Kirkwall would come crashing down along with it. She wasn't sure if she found the image amusing or terrifying, but the chains were imposing nonetheless.

The bright bursts of light between the thick clouds eventually became too much, and she flung one arm over the eyes, blacking everything out, the pressure bearing down on the eyelids so hard that small streaks of flashing pain passed until she eased up a bit.

Fenris had still been asleep when she sneaked out, his rumbling snore making her smile and wince all at once. In the pale morning, the swirl of emotions muddled, the only memory of the previous night lingering as recollections of actions and gestures on a rooftop with images juxtaposed against each other, strung together without internal meaning.

The only thing she knew with clarity was the letter in her possession had to be translated. It burned a hole in her pocket and her mind, so convinced was she that a clue resided among those words she did not understand, that she worried what she would do if there was nothing to be found. If it was just another dead end, where would she turn?

As Anders tapped his staff against cold stone repeatedly, Hawke thought that the price she paid for a dreamless night was too painful to repeat, but a night without the double-edged experience of dreams – too predictable by now – was something she would consider going to great lengths for.

Anders' weary sigh was followed by a cool touch to her throbbing temple, the familiar shiver of soothing magic chasing the lingering pain away.

"There," he said, urging her to leave.

"How's your Arcanum?"

Anders scowled. "Do you want me to get dragged off to the Gallows? Do not talk of that, or–"

She pressed the letter into his unwilling hand. "Whatever the price. Please. For me."

"Give me a few days," he said after a moment's consideration, pocketing it.

* * *

During that waiting time, Hawke often found herself at the threshold of the mansion, hand on the door before she caught herself and retreated to the study. Neither the Viscount nor the Arishok had requested her presence at either end of the city, and she was disinclined to fling herself willingly towards one or the other.

Being away from the Arishok was not doing anything for her peace of mind, and at night she found herself twisting in bed. Each time she was about to doze off she felt his breath against her skin, his weight pinning her down, the ghost of him moving within her, and she was mercilessly stirred awake again. It was a delicate torture, edging her on towards a sleepless exhaustion wherein she felt constantly on the edge of drifting into the Fade, and yet unable to fully give in.

Hawke wasn't certain what she was trying to accomplish anymore. First, it had just been to repress any desire, and then find an outlet for it: that outlet granted, she thought it would be possible to put out of mind with a single night, but not even that was enough. He was there, stuck, and she was at a loss as to how rid herself of him.

Distance did not alter anything: that was the curse and the blessing of it. In the state of distant yearning, the emotions could roam free and wild, without the encouragement of his touch to further set them ablaze. On the flip side, he was not around to discourage it either, but Hawke found herself unable to trust in that he would do such a thing. Their twisted entanglement needed to be severed, and she would now and again feverishly seize the pen and start scrawling a heated letter.

All the drafts lay abandoned on the desk, and shifting the papers around, she glanced the scattered sentences:  _–and you, you do nothing to ease this, all you do is to wait for me to come!; What am I to do with all of this? Do my actions even matter to you?_ ; all of them showing a confused state of mind that embarrassed Hawke to see.

 _I love you, but we can't do this anymore_. Just reading the top one over again caused her eyes to tear, and she crumpled the note in her hands but was unable to tear it apart or toss it away. It was the truth, and that was the wretchedness of it all: she loved him but knew it was impossible, and the torture she put herself through could not be worth it.

 _I love you, therefore I cannot see you in private anymore_.

Hawke took no issue with love itself, but the circumstances surrounding it were often troublesome, and the building of a stable relationship around it was a wholly different thing. She loved love, but not the complications it brought with it, particularly as she was acutely aware of her position in society, forever in the borderland of good and wrong, right and bad – and how quickly all that she owned could disappear in the turn of a hand.

The Arishok did not care for the social structure she was caught in, but he did not ignore it completely. He was equally observant on who she was and what little power she held, but there was an apathetic attitude towards placing weight on what she was: his interest was in the person. Or so she liked to think – she corrected herself with a sigh, sucking on the nib of a quill. What did she truly know about him, and what did he know about her? Barely anything worth mentioning. It was a good place to end it at.

The saving grace of their... Hawke struggled to name it, reluctant to call it union or relationship or even friendship or rivalry: each of them held a grain of truth and a field of not-quite in regards to what they were to each other.  _It was indeed as you said_ , she penned, _there are no words in my insufficient language as to what you are to me_.

The paper remained on the desk, no further sentence added for the rest of the night. In the morning, giving up on the terrible task, she threw all the scraps into the fireplace, collapsing in the bedroom with the curtains pulled tightly shut.

* * *

It took Anders a few days before he showed up with a scribbled translation. As much dislike as they held for each other at times, Justice's presence wedged between them and driving him to an extreme aversion of her attitude towards 'the mage plight' – somehow, they still overcame it at the crucial moments. For the moment, at least, and she felt an obligation towards him. After all, Anders and Bethany had been close before the sister perished in the Deep Roads. Closer than Marian initially thought, as she realized upon finding the journal Bethany kept, tucked away behind a panel in Gamlen's hovel when they moved out.

After all the years, she still had not given it to Anders, even though the last hundred pages were just about that apostate mage, Bethany's soft hand-writing curving along the page in dreamy excitement. Even in death, the sisterly protectiveness lingered on.

Now though, she stood in a quiet part of Hightown, the tall Keep casting its shadow across the greying stones with Anders and Fenris in tow.

"This feels wrong," Hawke commented, eyeing the dilapidated door across the tiny, empty square. The feeling was unshakeable, her gut wrenching and twisting as she made to turn away.

Fenris stopped her, his own face distorted with disgust. "It is a trick," he said, pushing her forward with a firm hand. "A magic barrier meant to repel us." Though even Fenris grunted in discomfort as they passed through it, and they clung to each other's arms as their stomachs heaved. She wanted to scream at him to let go and let her leave, but just as she exhaled a sigh of frustration they were through and the skin-crawling sensation of being in the wrong abated.

The mansion, while run-down, was not abandoned as one would have thought from the look of it. There were mud-caked shoe-prints in the hall, along an array of jars holding varying amounts of sand and dirt lined up along the wall. A sweet scent hung in the air, reminiscent of honeysuckle, and there was a noticeably hushed silence as the door swung shut behind them.

"Are you sure?" Hawke whispered under her breath to Anders.

"Positive," he affirmed, a flare of Justice's blue light shimmering right as a crackle of magic was heard in the adjoining hall.

A sudden burst of light knocked them all down, the red arc hitting Hawke right in the chest and flinging her across the room. She landed on the floor, gasping for breath before it was returned to her, but there was a forced way to how the air came in, a strain of dark magic hanging like a threatening noose around her throat, ready to choke.

"Such rude guests," a heavily accented voice commented as they all rose to their feet. All of them struggled to move, limbs difficult to control as a strange urge tugged them into the next room. Two mages were sitting by the blazing fire, drinks and documents on the table in front of them, and both set of eyes lighting up over seeing Hawke gritting her teeth as she struggled against the magic.

"If it isn't the Arishok's plaything!" one of the mages exclaimed, a wide smile flashing perfect white teeth.

Hawke felt a chill and wanted to turn around and run, but instead she drew closer to where the mages sat, each step light and carefree, burdens shed one by one. There was a glimmer in one of their cupped palms, a trickle of red oozing down onto the black robes, but she paid it no heed. It seemed as natural as the fact that her breathing – her continued life – was at their mercy.

"You're making quite the name for yourself, Hawke," the lady said, narrowing her eyes. "Enemies, too. The Qunari are not on your side."

"They've never been," Hawke agreed breathlessly. The truth was so obvious that she felt an idiot for having missed it.

The woman motioned for Hawke to kneel, and she fell down on her knees, beaming up at them in servile eagerness. It was easier not to fight it, it felt better – if she just obeyed, nothing hurt and she'd be rewarded, she just knew it instinctively.

"I recognize the elf," the man said suddenly, breaking out of his reverie. "He belongs to Danarius. Quite the prize on him to be brought back alive."

Behind her, Fenris was grunting.

"Here," the man said, handing Hawke a slave collar with intricate runes carved into it. "We want to keep him, at least."

The collar weighed in her hands, the iron icy to the touch and sticking to her sweaty palms as she approached Fenris. He was frozen, head bent forward and slightly turned away, and she brushed his white hair before pressing the metal to his skin. Barely had she done so before she felt a strange sensation in her chest, that peculiar and terrifying silver shimmer surrounding Fenris.

The spell coursing through her blood broke its hold over her, and she staggered backwards, the feeling in her chest feeling more like an ache, a burning and searing pain. Closing her eyes tight, she only heard as magic filled the air, and more distantly the soft cursing under Fenris' breath.

"Oh," she gasped, suddenly relieved and free, repeating the small word over and over. She had no sense of how long she'd stood as such, clutching at her own torso, before the cool presence of healing burst forth, overwriting the ache. Anders' hand on her chest returned air to her lungs, and she coughed once before her mind cleared fully.

Eyes open, she watched as Fenris tore the heart out of the male mage, his vicious snarl spattered with blood. Two bodies lay on the floor, lifeless and torn to shreds by Fenris, his glow still present as he turned towards Hawke and just as fast averted his face.

Without saying anything she bolted for the front door, coming out onto the deserted street. The lungfuls of fresh air quickly washed away the sickly sweet scent of the mansion, but it also brought with it a dizzying vertigo. Blinking rapidly, she slumped against the wall, breaths coming shallow and fast as the panic suddenly washed over her, the cold realization of what she almost did both shameful and chilling.

Despite the dizziness, something in the opposite corner of the square caused Hawke to straighten up despite how it made her wince. The magic had shrouded her vision, the last effects wearing off as the fragrances abated, but the glimpse of blood red and ashen skin...

"Hawke!" Fenris called out, teeth bared in a sneer yet with a noticeable regret in his voice.

Eyes narrowed, she saw that it was only the regular pale white stone of Kirkwall.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Only a little," she shrugged. Fenris scowled, eyes on her chest and she touched the plate there, hand coming away tinged with red.

"She is fine  _now_ ," Anders interjected, "though you should learn to control yourself–"

The two men fell into another heated argument of snide comments. Stepping away from the two of them, Hawke rubbed at the red, the colour jogging a distant glimpse of a memory... Then it clicked into place so suddenly that she winced visibly, Fenris immediately at her side to ask what was wrong.

"Nothing." She shook her head, bloodied thumb rubbing at the nose. "Just..."

* * *

The sun shone down irreverently on a macabre scene: charred and twisted corpses in varying sizes littered the sandy dunes of the islet, a faint whiff of flesh and coals and something wholly different tickling Hawke's nostrils now and then when the ocean withdrew for a moment. Fenris and Anders both stood tensely at the edge of a salt circle, the grains perfectly untouched, both muttering about bad magic lingering in the ground and air.

Hawke, less cautious, was treading around among the burned leftovers of the camp, picking up whatever she could – yet it all crumbled in her hand, ash scattering over her armour until she was a dulled unison grey.

They had been there but a few minutes when Hawke heard the unmistakable sound of another person approaching, and weapons were drawn in an instant, only for the Arishok to appear, flanked by his own men.

"This is not your place, Hawke," he said evenly. "It would be wise to leave."

"No. I refuse, at least until you answer me: what happened here?"

"Do you assume that you have a right to that information?"

"Yes. They knew who I was. They sent assassins for me, and you knew that. I have been left in the dark." Hawke was on her edge, drawing up on all the imposing terror she knew she sometimes managed to incite in the heart of lesser men. Except the Arishok was not her lesser in any form, but she needed to know, and it could wait no longer.

He grunted, then said a few low words to Fenris who nodded, urging a feisty Anders to come along with him as they started back on the path to Kirkwall. The Arishok then motioned for Hawke to step to the side with him, and under the wind-whipped branches of a bent ever-green tree, they stood in seclusion as the ocean waves sprayed them with cool salt water.

"We found out two months ago," he began, "when a patrol on the coast went missing. I suspected it was you at first."

"You'd think so little of me, to kill your men without informing you?"

"You are one of the few who can take them in a honest fight." He sighed. "But you fling yourself against unworthy opponents that do not test you, and you employ deceit and thievery despite your noble words. Did you think I would not notice? You take this letter, never meant for you, and use it for your own selfish means–"

"Selfish? It's to protect Kirkwall! You kept this from me, you did not want me to know!"

"It was of no concern to you!" It was more of an angry shout than anything else, the veins of his throat throbbing visibly as he bent over her, eyes flashing darkly.

"They wanted me dead!" She took a deep breath. "That matters to me."

"A lot of people want both of us dead. Letting it affect does us no credit." His hand moved towards her face, but in an act that surprised them both, she caught him by the wrist and held him still.

"No one actively pursued my death with such intensity before you. I am... Not ready to die for you."

He freed his hand from her grasp, taking a single step backwards. "Kirkwall would have you die, not I."

That sparked a livid reaction in Hawke. "It's my home! It may be flawed, and corrupted, but it is where I live!"

"When they speak of you, they go to great lengths to mention that you are Fereldan, daughter of the noble who eloped with a mage. To them, you are nothing but exotic and different. To them, you are exactly what I am."

She rubbed at her eyes. "It's my home, Arishok. Please, understand what that means."

"Kirkwall means nothing to me." His cold, hard voice cut Hawke deeper than she would like to admit, clenching her hands as she bit back the overwhelming surge of emotions when he spoke next. "We understand nothing about each other, I see that now."

She had been a fool, and would have to extricate all of herself from him, it was clear to her as she watched his face twisted into a deprecating sneer.

"Such mistakes we have made, Hawke. It seems we have reached the breaking point." In the middle of all that misguided anger, there was something else... Happiness? It only made Hawke all the more furious, and as he turned around she took him by the arm, digging her clawed fingers into his flesh.

"Fine. Tear this city apart, if you wish. Start a war. Raze it to the ground. But if you do, Arishok, know that I will be the one who kills you for it." She was shaking with indignant rage, but knew not where to direct it: at herself, or at him, or perhaps both would have been sensible. The ashen skin broke under her gauntlet's sharp fingers, and he shook her off with a pained grunt.

"I would have no one else."


	15. Love Until We Bleed

After Hawke handed in her note of resignation with the Viscount, she went directly to the Chantry. Rain poured down over Hightown, the stone steps were slippery as the water rushed down the pale white stones. A crack of thunder and lightning resounded between the high walls as the streets grew deserted in the early evening, and she hurried the final few steps. The large doors creaked as she entered, but once closed one could barely hear the storm outside.

She lingered by the entrance, feeling torn between staying and leaving immediately. Though she had never quite believed nor attended regular service – with two apostate mages in the family it was a troublesome endeavour at best, and at worst she feared implicating her father or sister – she found the Kirkwall Chantry a soothing place to be, far from the low ceiling and hard wooden seats in Lothering.

The scenery was different, but the doctrine the same. She felt like a traitor merely setting foot in there, as if she was about to spill the secrets of her family to whoever wished to listen, but the secrets of the dead were pointless to relate. The Hawke family, for all it used to be, was now reduced to just her: a failed soldier turned hard-fisted mercenary become bastard noble.

She shook the water out of the folds of her cloak, the echoing noise of the drops hitting against the smooth marble floor filling the entrance hall. A passing sister glanced her way but continued onwards, and Hawke moved as quietly as she could in her rustling and dripping wet clothes.

The golden statue of Andraste towered in the centre of the Chantry, a few visitors kneeling in front of it and whispering prayers. The lit candles cast a warm glow on the scene as she went up the stairs, slow and uncertain. On the upper floor incense burners hung from the ceiling and she gave one a cautious poke with her finger. It swung noiselessly from side to side, smoke trailing in its wake. The warmth began to seep through the cold clothes and she relaxed her tense shoulders a little.

She had not slept since she left the Arishok out on the Wounded Coast. Nothing felt better about what had passed there, but she saw no other way to go. She tore herself away from any necessity to set foot near the compound and hopes that the ties were severed enough to give her rest in due time. At the same time, she knew that she could reason all she wanted to, but the sharp aching stings cutting through the scars he left on her body kept pulsing with the beat of her heart.

Placing her hands on the smooth surface of the handrail, she leaned forward and gazed up at the vaulted ceiling. Dim lights filtered through the slanted glass even as rain cascaded down in sheets, causing a play of shadows to fall on the floor. She followed the movements, regular and rhythmic, willing herself to let go little by little. Eyes closed, she thought of the sea lashing at the cliffs of Kirkwall as she stood on top of them, throwing things over the edge. One by one, she watched aspects of her life plummet to the depths below, swallowed up by the waves or crushed to smithereens in the churn between rock and wave.

Her peaceful meditation was interrupted just as she thought of throwing a fabric sash down there, untying the blood red cloth from her own waist.

"Hawke," came a soft, familiar voice from behind. "I have not seen you here for a long time."

"Besides the funeral, you mean." Hawke flashed a quick smile over her shoulder to take the acidic edge of the statement. "Sorry. No, Sebastian, but you know me."

"We are all driven by different purposes," he said in a conciliatory way, coming to stand by her side. "Sometimes our paths are fortunate enough to cross."

_Sometimes we are unlucky in how they intersect_ , she thought as she stayed silent, picking at some imagined dirt around her fingernails.

"Did I interrupt something?"

"Nothing of importance."

"Then would you mind talking for a bit?"

She shook her head. "Though I have little to say. You will have to carry this conversation."

"Is there an issue weighing on your mind?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. The troubles of a city, the troubles of one's own life. It is nothing time can't fix, or erase."

He put his hand over hers, light and gentle. "If there is ever anything I can aid with, know that I will. You have do much for me, and I..." His soft face was graced by a smile, eyes focused on the doors in the distance. "Before I saw you here, I was thinking of the first time we met, of the good news you brought me. What a blessing you were then."

"You paid well enough for me to be." She expected him to be irritated at her for what she said, but he just kept smiling. "Why are you so happy?"

"Do I appear that way? Perhaps it's only the possibility of happiness that has me so elated. A chance to give back unto you what you for how you have redeemed my life."

"I don't quite follow you."

"I have long thought about this, wondering how to breach the topic. You are a whirlwind, constantly busy, constantly out of reach."

"I am here. I have always been here."

"Marian..." The use of her first name made her turn her head to meet his gaze, and in his eyes she saw what he wanted to say.

In her mind, she stood on the cliff, holding on to the red sash even as the winds whipped it around and lashed at her naked arms and legs.

Sebastian squeezed her hand underneath his.

* * *

In the pile of correspondence on Hawke's desk, she found one letter that smelled of salt and tar. She knew who it was from before she opened it, drawing in deep of the particular scent. For a moment, she was back down by the docks for the first time when she saw him: the demon of her dreams. There was a physical reaction, a wrenching of her body as if she was splitting in two. She felt hot and cold at once as her fingers broke the seal.

_Hawke,_

_The Viscount sends men who employ hollow offers to drive us out of this city. He is desperate, and you are not here. Is this your choice? To step away from your assigned duty? Perhaps I did think too much of you if this is the choice you make. Perhaps you are just another bas, without honour, and I was blinded by you._

She penned a reply, almost unwillingly, letting a full day pass in which she went to see her friends at the Hanged Man and ran errands in the marketplace. She preoccupied herself with others, trying to involve herself in their lives, and yet the letter burned in her mind as she tossed and turned in bed. Unable to sleep, she scrawled a few hasty sentences down in a feverish attempt to drive him out and away from her.

_Arishok,_

_Did I crush your thoughts of me so well that you have resorted to insulting me? With choice comes the chance of everything, even mistakes, but in the end I did little. The choice was made for me, because you were the one who made it. You do not understand my duty towards this city. It is as you said: we have no understanding for one another._

A few days passed without a word for him, and she thought she was freed. She met again with Sebastian, arguing in hushed voices in the Chantry garden. She struck a deal with Varric and invested coin in his new business venture. She went down to make amends with Merrill, but still she kept the Arulin'Holm safe in the cellars of the Hawke mansion. The choice mattered little: she still watched in fascinated horror as Merrill mended the Eluvian, trying to get her to eat the foods she brought along.

She came home, and the Arishok's letter rested next to a plea from Dumar himself. The Viscount wanted her to return, but she threw the letter on the crackling fire and tore open the new message from the Arishok.

_Hawke,_

_Shifting the blame is a weak tactic, and one you have never employed before. When others killed my men, you tried to take on their deaths as your responsibility. Fear echoes in each word you write. We have our differences, but despite those, we need to live up to what has been placed on our shoulders. I await your return._

Tearing it in two, she added the shredded remains to the fire as well before reaching for a new sheet of paper.

_Arishok,_

_There will be no return. There will be nothing. We should not have met at all._

She added the last sentence as an angry flourish, her hands shaking.

His reply came the next day already, and she did not know what to make of it.

_Hawke,_

_Yet we have met, and that has made all the difference that should not have been made._

Was there even anything to make of it? She pondered the sentence, the letter remaining on the desk as she left for the day. The rains had let up temporarily, though the distant horizon was still lined with dark clouds blotting out the sky. At the main stairs into Lowtown she bumped into Fenris, and they went to a secluded bar far away from the Hanged Man. In a private room they drank fine wine and talked. She mentioned Arishok in passing, but he picked up on it. He mentioned that Isabela seemed preoccupied with something, and he had a lot of free time,  _if she wanted to..._

She smiled and declined.

Aveline came by to talk, frowning as she brought up the rumours circulating the guard. Rumours about a woman who came and left the Qunari compound as she pleased, about a sly diplomat who practiced her art with her hips. Hawke shook her hand and smiled, and Aveline went back to knock some heads around.

One night Isabela found her way into the Amell estate, bringing a bottle of brandy and a tall tale before leaning forward across the table with a happy grin. "I almost have it now," she said. "The relic. I can smell it."

"Let me know when you need an extra push."

"Your muscles can come along too."

They then discussed what they could do for Merrill, if anything at all. They went back and forth, both torn between concern for their friend and wanting to let her make her own choices. In the end, they went to the Blooming Rose where Isabela disappeared to talk with some associates and Hawke fended off men at the bar.

Just drunk enough, she went to the Chantry at the break of dawn. Her speech slurred as she told Sebastian ' _why not?'_ , but she needed the loosening of her tongue to even be able to speak to him after his initial proposition.

After sleeping the day away and easing the headache, she went back to the writing desk.

_Arishok,_

_Please. Stop. I know the reply waiting on your fingertips as you read this, but stop. Do not write me back. Put me out of your mind and extinguish this agony. The torment is that we keep picking on this wound, unable to let it be, but for what purpose? We have said it, and we know it: we cannot be. There is no place for us in this world, nor would we let ourselves find one._

_I said I was not willing to die for you. Assassins have tried to take my life. You nearly took it too._

_There is nothing left for us except disappointment._

* * *

As she put down the quill Hawke heard the front door opening. The sound was faint, but more telling was the brief noise surge of the rain hitting the street outside. Not expecting visitors, she pushed her chair out as quietly as she could and reached a hand under the chaise-lounge. Feeling for the sharp dagger she kept hidden there, she dislodged it and sent a thankful thought to her mother, who had considered her habits of hiding a weapon in every room rather paranoid but never once tried to remove them.

Crossing the hall with light feet she heard the door being pulled shut. With dagger raised, she tugged at Dog's collar as he bared his fangs, holding him close to her as they reached the antechamber. She let out a soft gasp that made the visitor turn around and grunt.

"A strange way to greet a visitor," the Arishok said, rain dripping from his uncovered body into puddles at his feet. Strapped to his back were his two swords, and with the red war paint on his chest he looked ready for a ferocious battle.

"An acceptable way to greet an unwelcome one," she retorted, lowering the hand a little. "Should I ask why you are here?"

"A pointless waste of words."

She let go of Dog's collar and he growled once at the Arishok before going back to his spot in front of the fireplace, keeping an eye on his owner.

The Arishok spoke again, his words slow and restrained. "In the choice of fight or flight, you picked the lesser option. Why?" He looked exhausted.

"It was not the lesser one, but the right. I was fighting an opponent too lethal to conquer. Myself." She paused, eyes flickering to the growing puddle of water on the floor.

"What is the point in fleeing? One day, you will have to fight me."

"What do you mean?"

"You know the peace is beginning to fray. You have seen it with your own eyes. Enough time has passed, and there will be no more compromises." He sneered. "But it is not what I came here for. We have other matters to discuss."

She straightened up, painfully aware of how small she felt near him. What she was about to do went against all her better judgement, but seeing him in the flesh was like falling all over. The sway was far more than just carnal desires, a connection between them that apparently was not only troublesome to her. "You can come in, if you leave your weapons there." When she pointed at the weapons rack, she wanted to see how far he was willing to go. In truth, she expected him to refuse and leave, his unbending code of honour and pride forcing his path.

His eyes did not shift from hers. "If you lock the door."

Without hesitating she stabbed the dagger into the wall, fishing the key out of her pocket as he removed his two swords from his back. As he put them on the rack she twisted the key: he was disarmed, and she was locking him in with her. Or she was locked in with him.

Keeping an arm's distance between them she guided him into the study where she sat down on the edge of a couch before shooting up again. She told him to get comfortable as she went into the kitchen, leaning against the cool counter as she considered her options.

She could flee, again. Smash open a window and climb out, though he would hear.  _Fight or flight_.

Out of some absurd reason, she put some fruits and biscuits on a tray, as well as a pitcher of wine. She slipped a sharp, small knife under the platter and then went back in to him, where she found him standing by her writing desk. Under his fingers was the letter she had been writing on, but she casually moved past him and put the tray down on the low table by the couch. She lifted the knife, sliding it up her sleeve and folding it into the back of the sash around her waist.

He did not look up from the letter as he spoke. "If it pleases you to know, the assassins have lost interest in you."

"How do you know that?"

"The Qunari keep watch."

She nodded, not even faintly surprised.

"Is death so fearsome?"

"For the wrong cause, yes. I have taken enough pain for you." She pushed the shirt down to bare the gruesome scar on her shoulder. "This nearly killed me."

He eyed it dispassionately. "I inflicted it, but here you are. Alive. Able to withstand punishment enough to kill someone inferior."

She crossed her arms. "I do not understand you. This is not about the Qun, but you, as an individual, standing here before me. I do not understand what it is you want with me, because one moment I am a corruption, the next an honourable struggle."

"You are both."

"One day you say that it is only for that moment we will give in, and the next you take my aside under the pretence to indulge in what I want. What is it you want?"

He looked back down on the desk. "Upon returning to Par Vollen, the Ben-Hassrath will be waiting for me. Their task is to reeducate me for what errors I have committed here, with you."

"What do you mean when you say reeducated?"

He smiled slightly. "These transgressions with you are signs of a deeper fault within me. It will be a cure, however blunt it is. They will remove any pleasant associations with you. They will make sure I forget."

"Why?"

"To remind me of the Qunari ways. It is a must."

"Is that what you want?"

"Want? It is as it must be, as it will be. There is no choice involved."

She clenched her fists and then relaxed them when the Arishok noticed. "Why?" The question was repeated, a hollow echo, but it was all she could think to say. She wanted to ask why he should be able to forget and not her, if he loathed her so much for what they did that he needed her stripped from his mind, what she had done wrong...

"I do not regret us." He met her gaze, eyes unwavering and cool. "Even though we do not understand each other where it matters. The challenge you are to me is enough. Perhaps too much."

"You threaten Kirkwall. Of course I will challenge you."

"It is so much more than that, Hawke. You on your own is the challenge, not the role you try to refuse." He paused. "It fascinates me that you believe in your choices. That you alone make them, and you imbue them with meaning. There is a question I cannot speak of that requires answering, though it may lead to your death."

Instinctively she took out the knife from her sash, handling it with nimble fingers as if it was a toy, twirling it around. "Why mine? What if I decided to slit your throat open right here?"

"You would start a war." He was calm, almost amused.

"What if I stopped caring? What if I wanted the war instead of the wait?"

"War comes only when the time is right. Anything else, and it is a futile one." He moved closer, tentatively putting one hand on her hip. It struck her that he was hesitating and struggling with his own doubts. "There are precious few places in Kirkwall where we can remain unseen. The Ben-Hassrath will only take what they know of, and what I confess to."

It struck her that he wanted her, and that he wanted the private sanctuary of her house to enjoy it in.

"I need to balance us out first." She flicked the knife against his arm, cutting the skin. "A payment for what you have taken."

He took her wrist in a harsh grasp, eyeing the shallow scratch it had inflicted. "Do it properly. It is only fair."

She put the knife at his cheekbone, trying to decide where to cut. "If I am such a problem to you, why not take my life?"

"Because your death should not be cheaply taken with a kitchen knife. You are on the precipice of becoming something far grander than the refugee with dirty hands and distant eyes. There is so much that hangs in the balance of your hands."

He remained calm as the edge sliced into his skin, but as she moved it he put his hand over hers, pushing the blade in harder. More blood flowed out, bright red and warm, trickling down the blade and staining their fingers. She loosened her grip but he held firm, his intense gaze unyielding. "Push, Hawke. Tip the scales."

She dropped the knife and flung an arm around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. He responded, blood from his cheek transferring onto hers and dripping down to rest in the hollow of her collarbones. He kissed her still, the curtains drawn over all the windows, their fate sealed out of view from the rest of the world.

* * *

The Arishok left in the small hours of the evening through the cellar passage. She gave him the key unlocking the doors, their parting wordless and without promises. The sheet she had wrapped around herself sagged as they kissed and he touched her naked body once more, fingers moving across the red gashes and blossoming bruises he had given her. She closed the door after him before pulling the stained sheet up again, reeking of them both and what they had done.

On the way back to her bedroom she stopped by the study where the wine was stale and the fire dying out. She threw the unsent letter into the fireplace and returned upstairs to the bedroom. The bed creaked as she flopped down on it, the half-melted candle on the bedside table flickering from the gust of air as she sighed.

With one hand she felt around on the table until she found what she sought. She played with the golden ring, rolling it between her fingers, raising it up to look at the light reflecting off it. Then she remembered and felt guilty, opening the drawer and dropping it in there as she curled up and moved her hand over the still-warm mattress.


End file.
